Hotline
by Shahrezad1
Summary: As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one turtle's choice affects the entire team.
1. Hotline

**Hotline**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one person's choice affects the entire Turtle team.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except for fond childhood memories of watching turtle cartoons on Saturday mornings.

**Trigger warning for those who have dealt with depression, suicide, anxiety, and abuse.** The more serious content will be in Chapter 4, although there will be mentions in later chapters. If you have PTSD regarding these issues, you may not want to read this fanfic. Thank you.

**Quick Author Note:** Donatello's nickname will be written as "Donny" rather than "Donnie" in this, as determined by the subtitles of the live action films. I wasn't sure which spelling to go with, but that little detail became the deciding factor. :)

~/~/~

Chapter 1: Hotline

"_I just want to be ok, be ok, be ok  
I just want to be ok today  
I just want to be ok, be ok, be ok  
I just want to be ok today_

I just want to feel today, feel today, feel today  
I just want to feel something today  
I just want to feel today, feel today, feel today  
I just want to feel something today."

-Ingrid Michaelson, "Be Okay."

There are just some people that don't deserve to breed.

The thought blossomed like lilies among the sewage after a twenty-minute trial with an exasperating prankster.

At this point the turtle was pretty accustomed to TRS/Telecommunications Relay Service calls: voice operators acting as telephone intermediaries for the Deaf via TTY typing machines. The only problem being that TRS operators had to voice everything a caller typed up—_everything_. And if that caller happened to be a bored college student using a university-provided TTY machine for their own nefarious purposes, well…

"Ma'am, or Sir, I'm fairly certain that my refrigerator isn't going anywhere. And if it was, that's no-one's business but mine. Now. Is there anything _else_ I can help you with today?"

He asked the question with gritted teeth, more out of force of habit than anything else. Donny's superiors tended to monitor calls, randomly jumping in to listen when an employee least expected it. It made sense, logically. After all, most RooTTech employees worked from home, so it wasn't as though the managers could hover over their shoulders, making sure they stuck to protocol and retained a certain level of professionalism.

But he would be lying if he said that it wasn't as unnerving as shell.

The olive turtle tossed two Very Cherry chewy Tums into his mouth with all the anxiety of an addict, his stomach already roiling.

When the operator on the other end, forced into spewing the endless volley of bad jokes and immature innuendo, spoke again it was with a slight laugh to her voice. But, like a true professional, she held back.

"There's plenty that you can help me with."

He huffed an exasperated, "thank you for calling RooTTechnologies," then disconnected.

Okay. Time to _breathe._

The mantra, enforced by a childhood of martial arts training, was necessary in his line of work—for his sanity, if nothing else.

_You are not allowed to kill anything—that's Raph's job. Don't break anything, either; it's not as though it's _their_ fault for a general lack of intelligence among the masses._

Patting one of the cracked monitors closest to him with all the fond familiarity of a breeder and its prize-winning purebred, Donny took another few gulps of air, one of soda, and signed back in again. He only got paid for the hours he spent connected to the network, something RooTTech kept track of via a downloadable application.

Some days resulted in dead air—it was then that the machine-savy vigilante caught up on old issues of Popular Mechanics and made sweeps for gang activity through hacked traffic cams—and then there were days when it was an endless stream of idiocy.

Today fell into the latter category.

They'd taken up the old patrols a couple years ago, after Leo finally returned from his "training period" in South America. Which was great—no complaints there, and it was definitely nice for them to stretch their legs and learn to work as a team again. But late nights meant difficult mornings (followed by coffee), which bled into exhausting shifts. And as one of the sole breadwinners of the family most everyone left him to his own devices during the daylight hours.

Abandoning him to his horrific fate.

At 10:00 AM he'd had to help an old man figure out how to update the Windows program on his computer.

Somewhere around noon a woman with a Southern accent needed assistance understanding why her mouse wouldn't work (it turned out that her son had taken the archaic mouse ball out).

At 12:30 PM he received a telemarketer call…from Japan. That had gone at least somewhat smoothly as he switched into half-passable Japanese.

At 1:00 PM a mystified college student couldn't figure out why his laptop wasn't working after he'd accidentally spilled soda on it—after all, '_he'd wiped it down and dried it off and everything,' _but only _after_ he'd forgotten about it for an hour or so.

_It's fried, dude. Just say goodbye and let it go._

Throughout the rest of his eight-hour shift Donny had been verbally poked and prodded, asked strange questions and hung up on more times than he could count. Honestly, he was ready to throw the towel in at this point…or at least have a go at Raphael's punching bag. But the clock was moving at an infinitesimal pace.

Like tar on a cold day in New York.

There was a beep indicating an incoming call and Donatello sighed, leaning forward to press the Enter button on his computer. Just as he did so, however, Mikey's orange alley cat, Klunk, leapt up in unison. Sure, the button got pressed, but so did a handful of other things as the feline proceeded to investigate his workspace, knocking piles of carefully sorted computer parts off the desk right and left.

Meanwhile the sound of shallow, hiccup-ridden breathing made its appearance through his headset.

"H-hello? Is anyone there?" a voice asked plaintively, a hint of a wobble to it.

Donny mentally swore as he righted the jungle of electronics Klunk had knocked over, whilst the culprit merely groomed himself nonchalantly. He gently shoved the cat away and, offended, the orange fuzzball made his way back to the 'den.'

"Sorry about that, technical difficulties. What can I do to help you with your IT problems, Miss?" Donatello asked, fudging with the usual opening dialogue in an effort to transition through the awkwardness of his fumble.

But, if anything, his response seemed to shock her.

"Oh. Then this…this isn't The Hotline?"

"The Hotline?" he echoed absently, fighting a tangle of wires with single-minded determination.

"The…the s-suicide hotline?"

He forgot what he was doing as his breath came out short and quick, staring at the wall of monitors in front of him and not seeing _any _of them.

"Ah, excuse me. I, um, I'm not sure if I heard that correctly," he laughed a tad uneasily, "did you just ask if this was a _suicide_ hotline?"

"Yes."

"_Yes?_"

Her voice was halting, "I…I must have written it down wrong. I-I'll just go now—I'm sorry to have bothered you…_oh, I just knew that this was a bad idea, I_—," the last part was muttered under her breath, a clatter occurring in the background as though something had been knocked over. Donny reacted instinctively.

"_No!_ I mean, um, no. _Please_ stay on the line. My name is Donny. How-um, how can I help you?" feeling as though he was being strangled, the turtle forced the sensation down.

"Well. Um, are you sure?" she asked hesitantly, "I mean, you're not trained or anything…"

"You don't have to be trained to lend a listening ear," he remarked encouragingly. It sounded like something April might say, and Donatello crossed the only two fingers he had in the hope that none of his brothers would come in to interrupt.

"What would you like to talk about?"

"Well, I. Miss Dobson said that if I felt…if I felt as though…"

He resisted the urge to prompt her, knowing that sometimes—as in the case of Raphael—all it took was nonjudgmental silence and a bit of encouragement for someone to start speaking. He wouldn't rush her.

The woman on the other end didn't disappoint.

"Miss Dobson said that if I ever couldn't handle 'everything' to call _here_ first, before making any 'rash decisions,'" she expressed in a whoosh.

"But the number was wrong, of course," Donny continued the narrative for her.

"Yes, exactly," she agreed ruefully.

"Well," he began, thinking quickly. It felt as though this call was her last resort, and should she hang up she might not try again. Therefore, expert or no expert in counseling and psychology, he would try to manage as best he was able. And if his managers complained he could always send an email explaining the situation, "what events led you to the point where you felt as though su…where you felt that was your only choice?"

The caller hesitated, only shallow breathing coming through the line, "I don't like talking about it."

His gut clenched—whatever it was, it must be pretty serious. And regrettably he had a feeling that had this _really_ been the Suicide Hotline she might have been willing to talk through the situation. As things stood, she didn't trust him, being the proverbial 'stranger' he was, regardless of the fact that a real attendant would have been a similar nonentity. He would have to tread carefully and keep her on the line as long as possible, running a tracer simultaneously—just in case. Whether that 'just in case' meant intervening or some other action, he didn't know. But it was just better to be prepared. Especially if there was no other recourse but to call the cops.

Hopefully he wouldn't have to resort to that, though—anonymous tips had a way of getting back to them, and there were these two lady cops, one uptown and one downtown, which had lately been sniffing after their trail. It was a disaster just waiting to happen, which he would prefer to avoid if possible.

Maybe with some effort she could be helped without the need to notify the authorities.

"You could start with the things you _do_ feel comfortable talking about," he suggested gently.

Her response was a shaky, rattled, "alright," before she began.

"Um, I'm being bullied in school?" the girl started off with, and he blinked—if being bullied was the 'least' of her worries, then what—?

"Why?"

The question came out as a side-effect of his personality. Donatello was always wanting to know the 'hows' and the 'whys' of things. Question came second-nature, and since he'd never been bullied himself, while understanding in parts, the turtle couldn't quite grasp the purpose of it. Nor even how bullying could affect individuals in such away as to push people to the edge.

"Does it matter why?" she asked somewhat irritably and he blinked at the first real emotion she'd shown outside of uncertainty, "I'm weak, so I'm a target."

Donny immediately backtracked, "forgive my lack of…um, tact. I was, ah, homeschooled, so I could never quite understand why bullying happens."

She was silent for a moment, and he was worried that he had lost her.

Finally, "it's okay."

"Oh…Okay. Ah, um, what are some of the things that they say?"

"That I'm ugly," she explained shortly, "that I have a horse face. That I should just save everyone the trouble and put myself out of my misery."

The girl parroted the words back tiredly, as though accustomed to their sting. Donatello winced.

"I'm sure that that's not true."

"How would you know that?" she challenged, "you've never met me."

"You're right, I haven't," he remarked quietly, "but you're not the only one with self-confidence issues about their appearance and I can honestly say that I've heard them all, myself, and in 90% of all such situations the details are inaccurate."

_Monster, freak, lizard-man._ They cut deeply, but the last one had offended him the most due to its inaccuracy. _Lizards don't have shells, now do they?_ He'd explained patiently to the street punk before knocking him out with his Bo staff. Still, it was the epithetic which irked him the most. _Do your feaking research._

"I thought that you said that you were homeschooled?"

He coughed, "well, there's a reason for it," he explained shortly. Which was, in its own way, completely truthful, "and as it stands, I can guarantee that I'm one of the few people_ least_ likely to judge you based on appearances—trust me on this."

There was an echoing kind of silence on the other side, and he was certain for a moment or two that his vehemence would result in a dial tone. Until something like muffled cloth moved against the receiver—a nod, maybe?

"Sorry."

"It's okay. And you shouldn't be the one apologizing, I should. I was definitely…opinionated for a moment, there, when I should have allowed you to continue talking. I just have rather strong feelings about the subject."

"About people's appearances?" she asked.

He shifted in his seat, having long-since dumped his pile of mismanaged electronics back onto the nearest flat surface, "about letting the attitudes of others dictate our choices and beliefs. It's true that, yes, we all have limitations, whether physical or otherwise, but we can't understand the bounds of them until we extend ourselves beyond what the world expects of us. We—," he cut himself off abruptly, "I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"Yes," the girl asked with a laugh to her voice. His heart leapt—he'd made her laugh. It was a start, "but it's kinda cool. You seem really smart."

"Um, thank you?" he responded with a surprised laugh, "but this is just what I was talking about. Based on my physical exterior people don't expect much from me—especially a mature, informed opinion. Similarly, it sounds as though your peers are basing their opinions of you on your outside appearance. What to do in this situation is to _prove them wrong._ Appearances are immaterial; they don't dictate what we can or can't do. Only_ we_ can—it doesn't matter what we look like."

"I guess that's true."

Realizing by her muted response that he had probably gotten carried away again, and that he was perhaps in what Mikey liked to call his, 'Professor Lecture-o' mode, he decided to try a different approach.

"Look, I'm going about this the wrong way. What I mean to say is…bullies will find any excuse to pick on someone weaker than themselves—you said it yourself. Oftentimes it has nothing to do with the victims so much as the bullies' own problems at home. I know that that doesn't help much, but it does put events into perspective."

Taking a breath, he continued, reminding himself to keep his points simple and clear, "and, truthfully, if _they're_ not meaning what they're saying, then the only person whose opinion counts is your own."

"Even if I _do_ look like a horse?" she asked sardonically.

"Well, even if you do, I know plenty of people who have an animal appearance," he said with a mischievous grin, leaning back in his chair, "for example, there's a guy I know who has kind of a rodent look about him, and he's the finest man I've ever met."

"Really?" she asked with some hesitance.

"Yep. So fine, in fact, that he's my father."

There was a huff of laughter, so he took it as his cue to continue.

"My best friend also has a crocodile's smile—very toothy," he went on with the inside joke, "but he's trustworthy and intelligent."

"Mmm hmm."

"Then there's a rabbit-y sort of guy, very twitchy. People underestimate him a bit, but he's someone you really wouldn't mind having your back in a fight."

"One of your friends from the neighborhood watch?" the girl prompted teasingly.

"The very one," he agreed with a quiet sort of pride, "'though he's makes more cameo appearances than anything."

"A volunteer of a volunteer?"

"Exactly."

"I dunno," she murmured, "I mean, those are all _guys_, though. It's different for a girl…being ugly."

_Ugly._ He hated that word. With a passion. How did one determine that something was ugly? It was nothing more than an opinion, unbacked, unsourced, and with no basis in fact. True, the Golden Ratio could be used to indicate in a mathematical formula what was considered the "perfect" balance of features, among other measurements, but there was no similar equation for the opposite state. And what was more, appearances which were considered ugly in one culture could be seen as attractive in another—he'd witnessed that first-hand.

"Okay, so you're being bullied. And for what? For your physical appearance of all things. But that's like pitting a sunflower against a bouquet of roses. Which smell lovely, but give very little back to the world," he wet his lips, the words he was speaking almost as much a rule for himself to live by as they were for her.

"Look, fitting in is _great_, but it will never allow you to grow. Your differences allow you a distinct advantage, evolution-wise. And even if you _do_ agree with their conclusion, you should focus on the traits which make you an individual, rather than a drone. Humanity is beautiful, and _you are a part of it_. Which is something to celebrate."

_Especially as it's nothing that _I_ can be part of._

Her tone was doubtful, "I'm not sure if…" then there came a hitch to her breath, a thoughtful pause, and, "I'm not sure if I have talents or, um, traits. But, well, I_ do_ like anything involving stories. Things I can get lost in—books, mostly."

"That's a definite start," he said encouragingly. The fact that she was volunteering information was a good beginning.

"And I like that I'm creative—that I can imagine things. That I'm somewhere else, or doing something other than…what I have to."

"Okay, go on."

"And I like to write poetry."

The words were forced out, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop—perhaps waiting for his rejection. Donatello blinked, then smiled. _This_ he could work with.

"I like poetry, as well. Who is your favorite poet?"

Eventually down the line of their conversation she admitted that there was more to it than just bullying.

Donatello told her that that was okay—they would deal with one thing at a time.

~/~/~

AN: This idea blindsided me, to be honest. I tend to go through fandoms in a merry-go-round-like fashion. I revisit old friends and go in circles while adding more and more horses to my retinue. In this case, the Turtles fandom is an oldie but a goodie.

So when I saw the newest teaser trailer for the live action Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles coming out in August I was hit with inspiration. Previously I was a little leery (it's a Michael Bey film, and there's Megan Fox in it. :S ), but the dialogue in Teaser Trailer 3 gave me hope.

Especially given the fact that I could distinctly tell which character was talking, even when there is no clear image of each speaker. And then in my brain I heard Donny say, "you know, you could always write a fanfic_ before_ you leave for your religious Mission in Japan on August 20th. Kind of in anticipation for the new film."

My response was in the negative—no way, no how, "ain't nobody got time fo' dat."

But he kept insisting. This is the end result. We'll see if I'll actually finish it. :S Which is why I'm going for the format that I am—no solid plot, each "love interest" being a regular person, with tiny scenes thrown into the mix, and overlapping POV's from the brothers.

This is because in real life, stories are not linear. Especially when it involves several individuals living together (as an example, do I stop dating just because my roommate had a boyfriend? No, I do not. Etc).

Also, crossover references. Because, by golly, there are a lot of vigilantes in New York, apparently. XD Let me know if you can spot them—we already got a few hints in this chapter.

**As for the matters of authenticity:** I'm basing many of "her" experiences on my own, as well as those of family members, friends, and coworkers. I'm trying to be sensitive to the material involved, and if her experiences don't match those of others (in which case, you have my deep and abiding sorrow and empathy), I apologize—I'm trying to make this story as accurate as possible.

**PLEASE REGARD THE TRIGGER WARNING AT THE BEGINNING.** Thank you.

If Donny seems callous it's because he's not quite sure how to react just yet, plus his mind is more logical than emotional (although that will change with time and exposure). Additionally, his initial efforts involve giving her something and someone else to focus on at this time.


	2. Follow-up

**Hotline**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one turtle's choice affects the entire team.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except for fond childhood memories of watching turtle cartoons on Saturday mornings.

**Trigger warning for those who have dealt with depression, suicide, anxiety, and abuse.** The more serious content will be in Chapter 4, although there will be mentions in later chapters. If you have PTSD regarding these issues, you may not want to read this fanfic. Thank you.

**Quick Author Note:** Donatello's nickname will be written as "Donny" rather than "Donnie" in this, as determined by the subtitles of the live action films. I wasn't sure which spelling to go with, but that little detail became the deciding factor. :)

~/~/~

Chapter 2: Follow-Up

"_I'm a new soul  
I came to this strange world  
Hoping I could learn a bit about how to give and take.  
But since I came here  
Felt the joy and the fear  
Finding myself making every possible mistake_

La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la...

I'm a young soul in this very strange world  
Hoping I could learn a bit bout what is true and fake.  
But why all this hate?  
Try to communicate  
Finding trust and love is not always easy to make."

-Yael Naim, "New Soul"

Overlarge fingers typed rhythmically along varying panels of plastic. The keyboards, meant for much smaller, human hands, were cumbersome at best for a figure with only three digits instead of five, but he made due. It was like having a limp, he'd realized—where instead of taking a step you swing wide and take a hop instead, overcompensating for the imbalance.

Or perhaps like skateboarding down a path that's uneven—you may have to jump frequently, but you kept on skating despite the rough terrain.

Donatello smiled at the analogy as he coded along, thinking minutely how his brother, Mikey, would probably enjoy that "real world" example. But the bemused thought couldn't occupy him for long—not with the work he had to do.

Having always had an affinity for electronics, the concept of internet access and web-surfing opened up a whole new realm of possibilities for the tech-savy turtle. It was his version of a wardrobe access to Narnia, or perhaps a train to Hogwarts. Complete with its opportunities for learning and exploration, without ever actually leaving the Lair. Thus it made sense that his first _real_ friends—outside his immediate family, assorted "battle" acquaintances, and of course April and Casey—were like-minded individuals who had latched onto the concept of information sharing with similar ferocity.

"_Easy as 3.14159265359."_ The chat room banner read.

Originally it had been an offshoot of a nerd forum involving molecular biology, robot advancements, and nanotech science, way back from the golden years of his youth. But repeated posts between himself and three other individuals had developed into an amiable kind of camaraderie. Which eventually led to the exchange of emails and the creation of a private chat room—for the sake of convenience—built from the ground up on a private, protected server one of the other three had access to.

It was, in a way, his haven from the petty childishness of "life at home" and the frustrations of a genius-level intellect working an 'everyman's job.

Only here did he have tacit permission to delve into highly concentrated technobabble without having to worry about whether or not his audience could keep up. It wasn't as though he disliked spending time with his brothers, of course, it was just that it was nice sometimes to discuss things on his own level, with peers.

Although he wasn't certain how much help his friends were going to be in this particular situation—involving "people" and "communication", rather than the abstract or scientific areas of study.

Signing in under his usual pseudonym, Don pecked out what he wanted to say and immediately pressed 'enter,' not even allowing himself a second or two to second-guess the matter.

_Assistance Needed, Level: Obi-Wan Kenobi_, he'd titled his missive.

Seconds later there was a blip in his headset as someone replied.

_ArachnisDeathicus: It's really great that you see me as your only hope, Don, but I think that we should start seeing other people._

Donatello let out a sigh of relief. _ArachnisDeathicus _didn't really sign out—which consequently meant that you were never quite sure when he was actually online—but out of the turtle's three friends, he was the most level-headed and reliable.

Given that, well, _LexM rksTheSp0T_ got out about as much as he did and _SheBlndedM3WSc1ence_ was so caught up in her research that she tended to forget how to interact with people. Her attention span was tenuous at best, especially when there was physics to do.

"Pete," the turtle typed under his username, _TerrapinBowling_, "I've got a problem. A real, honest-to-motherboard problem."

The words [_ArachnisDeathicus is writing] _appeared in italics.

_ArachnisDeathicus: Okay…what happened? Do you need something blown up? Possibly shipped—I'm great at moving things. Used to be a delivery boy._

"I just need to talk through something. Are you busy?"

_ArachnisDeathicus: I'm [ArachnisDeathicus is writing] at my second job, _the other guy remarked.

Donny nodded—that meant that Peter was responding by way of his phone and could get interrupted at any time.

"Will you get in trouble if…?"

_ArachnisDeathicus: Naw, it's a slow afternoon. Working on my tan right now._

The vigilante took in a deep breath before plunging beak-first into the matter, "you know how I've been keeping at that Tech Support job for a couple of years now?"

_ArachnisDeathicus: The one that drives you crazy? I still don't understand why you're the only breadwinner—and didn't Mikey quit his job, too?_

Donatello gulped down a breath—he'd never really been able to explain _why_ his brothers couldn't work, only that they couldn't, "yeah, well, I've been dealing with a lot more prank calls lately."

_ArachnisDeathicus: My force-senses say that there's more to the situation than just that._

"Well, you're right. So yesterday," he paused in his typing, started again. Stopped. The words, _[TerrapinBowling is writing]_ mocked him, "the other day—."

_ArachnisDeathicus: Donny, Obi-Wan Kenobi couldn't help Leia until she sent him that hologram. You've got to give me something to work with, TurtleMan._

He hardly blinked at the nickname—Peter had given it to him based on his login rather than his…ethnicity. Still, the first time _ArachnisDeathicus _had 'said' it Donatello had fallen out of his chair.

The twenty-something bit the bullet.

"A.D., there was a girl who called and she thought I was the operator for a suicide hotline."

_[ArachnisDeathicus is writing]_

The message disappeared.

Then reappeared.

Was gone for a moment and then…

_ArachnisDeathicus: What?_

"Reread it again," Donatello wrote dryly, " it's not going to disappear on the screen, no matter how you stare at it. A young woman thought that I was a suicide hotline."

_ArachnisDeathicus: You mean that _RooTTech_ was a suicide hotline._

"Callers think of the operators as representatives of the hotline."

_ArachnisDeathicus: Yes, but if you think like that then you're going to take this personally. And knowing you, you're going to go all "guilty conscience" on the situation._

_[ArachnisDeathicus is writing]_

_ArachnisDeathicus: On that note, are you okay? Is SHE okay? I mean, how did things go down?_

There was a deliberate pause.

_ArachnisDeathicus: While you were on the line, I mean._

"Well, I talked her out of it if that's what you're asking," they had never actually used microphones to talk to one another, but knowing Peter rather well Donny could imagine him expelling a sigh of relief.

_ArachnisDeathicus: Oh, GOOD. Then what happened?_

"We just talked for a while. An hour, I think. But my problem is that, well, I told her she could call again and I'm not certain how to proceed. It's the human element of things—I don't really have much practice," he laughed at how true that statement was, startling Klunk, who had decided that the top of a humming computer tower made for an excellent perch.

"I think part of the problem is that I'm not exactly known for being sympathetic," he continued without pause, "if someone has a problem, especially an emotional problem, I believe that it should be dissected into its smallest form and them solved in parts—."

It was part of the reason he had so little patience for the spats between Raphael and Leonardo—it simply made more sense for the two of them to realize that they were more similar than different, and move on with their lives.

"—therefore I can't quite grasp how someone could get to the point where they see suicide as their only option."

_ArachnisDeathicus: Sadly, I can see how someone might have gotten there. Just imagine your lowest point and then drop even further—that's where she's at._

Donny, as _TerrapinBowling_, didn't know how to respond to that. It was the most personal Peter had ever gotten with him beyond their usual snark and scientific discussion. But then Peter rallied again.

_ArachnisDeathicus: Look, it's like science. The only way to find out why is to ask questions and test theories. So if you want to know how she came to that conclusion, ask her. Who knows, maybe she'll open up to you? Maybe it'll do you both some good._

A small smile lifted the corner of his beak, "am I that desperate for company?"

_ArachnisDeathicus: Hey, you're the one who said it, not me._

Donatello chuckled, "well, thanks anyway, Peter."

_ArachnisDeathicus: No problem. Oh, by the way, before I forget—what's her name?_

The turtle blinked, "um…I didn't catch it."

_ArachnisDeathicus: You spoke for an hour…and you didn't catch her name. O_O_

_[ArachnisDeathicus is writing]_

_ArachnisDeathicus: At least tell me you gave her your phone number or something so that she can call back._

"Um…" he stared at the screen, mind blank. Wanting to say something but completely unable to defend himself.

Of all the dumb things…

_ArachnisDeathicus: Don, what are we gonna do with you?_

~/~/~

Still kicking himself several days later, Donatello went back to work.

"Hello, this is RooTTech Tech Support. My name is Donny, how can I assist you today?" the words were automatic and, what's more, almost robotic. Now that he was brain-dead and near the end of his rather deplorable shift.

The voice on the other end, however, had him almost leaping from his computer chair. His coffee mug, a third of the way full with days-old sludge the color of sewer muck, fell to the floor to ooze along the brickwork. But it wasn't dripping anywhere near his hardware, so he determined to ignore it—at least for now. The usually tidy mutant winced.

"D-Donny? Did you say that this was _Donny?_" the person asked with shy hesitance and what he thought might be some relief. He was instantly brought back to the conversation as though electrocuted, energy and adrenaline humming through his veins as he felt his pulse jump in his throat.

"It's you! Ah, I mean, yes! Yes, this is Donny. Is this the girl from the other day? The one with the…the 'hotline'?" he was almost anxious to make sure, gripping his armrests and leaning forward as though he could dive right into the phone itself.

"Yes! Um, I mean it is. And you're the, um, you're the guy that…talked to me?"

"Yes, I am. Hello again," he fought to keep the eagerness out of his voice, determined to remain professional. Or at least calm. Calm-ish.

"H-hello. I, ah," there was a distinct sigh, as though letting the air out of a tire. He fought the urge to echo the sentiment, "I tried calling a few times but I kept getting other…other people. I mean, which wasn't bad—they were very nice. Just…confused. But Judith told me to just keep calling. And she gave me her email for some reason and told me to 'let her known how it all works out' which I don't quite _get_, you know? But she was nice and, um. Hi. Again."

Donny laughed a tad weakly and ran a hand over the back of his green neck, "um, I'm not sure, either, to be honest," although having watched one too many films with Master Splinter involving star-crossed lovers, he had a _general _idea what the woman might have been getting at. Not that he was going to touch that subject with an seven-foot bo staff, "Look, I get off in about ten minutes. How about I give you my sh-my cellphone number?"

"Oh!" her exhalation was surprised and a bit confused, "sure, that'd be okay. I wouldn't want for you to…to lose your j-job because of me."

Well, that wasn't _quite_ what he'd meant—honestly, he just didn't want the conversation to be on record and accessible to his superiors. The last one between them had been suspicious enough already!

"Right. So. It's 555-8668. Did you catch that?"

"Yes."

"And, before I forget…"

"Yes?" she prompted again, questioning.

"I never actually got your name."

"Oh!" her breath caught in surprise and then she was verbally bumbling forward. He could well imagine her running a hand over her hair or biting her lip—but there was never really a visual of her facial features in his mind, or body type. Just mannerisms, "I'm sorry. Um, it's Joy."

"Joy?" He blinked, eye ridges lifted.

"Yes. I was named after my mother," she paused slightly, then, "I guess I'll see you in about ten minutes, then?"

"Yeah. See you in a few," he responded, unable to keep the smile from his face. When he realized this he sternly forced his mouth back into a straight line.

This was a girl with serious issues, here. He needed to be a rock for her—a steady hand and a guiding voice. Smiling had nothing to do with it; the situation was too serious for that.

Still, minutes later, the happy expression was back again.

_What in the world was wrong with him?_

~/~/~

AN: Another cameo appearance by a New York denizen, and a few references that make me smile. :) Kudos to anyone that figures them out.

I tried to make the dialogue between Donny and _ArachnisDeathicus _interesting and upbeat. I know that in the past I've been irritated when an entire fanfic (or even a novel!) is written out as though existing in a chat room—thereby deleting information such as pauses, emphasis on certain words, and descriptions regarding each speaker's actions. So I tried to include those little details at least on Donny's side of things, to make the interaction interesting.

Donny's shell-cell number is basically 555-TMNT—not a real phone number, I'll have you know. ^^ Because I think I'm hilarious. ;-) The 555 is traditionally used by filmmakers/authors to indicate a fake phone number. :D If you don't know what I'm talking about, check THIS link!: en. wikipedia wiki /555 _ %28telephone _ number%29 (remove spaces)


	3. A Voice in the Night

**Hotline**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one turtle's choice affects the entire team.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except for fond childhood memories of watching turtle cartoons on Saturday mornings.

**Trigger warning for those who have dealt with depression, suicide, anxiety, and abuse.** The more serious content will be in Chapter 4, although there will be mentions in later chapters. If you have PTSD regarding these issues, you may not want to read this fanfic. Thank you.

**Quick Author Note:** Donatello's nickname will be written as "Donny" rather than "Donnie" in this, as determined by the subtitles of the live action films. I wasn't sure which spelling to go with, but that little detail became the deciding factor. :)

~/~/~

Chapter 3: A Voice in the Night

"_Under twenty thousand tons of brick and stone,  
She carries all the weight of her own world,  
But somewhere deep inside,  
Beneath the cartilage and bone,  
Beats the battered heart of one little girl alone.  
She is sweet, like sugar,  
But she is bitter like the broken sugar pot.  
Dad says that she could be anything she wants to be,  
She only sees what she is not._

_Disbeliever, underachiever,  
Disconcerted with the way things look from here,  
Disinclined and disinterested,  
Nothing in your world seems clear.  
Disbeliever, underachiever,  
Don't you shed another tear,  
Little Sister, broken heart resistor,  
It's not like that over here._

-Brave Saint Saturn, "Resistor"

It was the start of something…curious. Like falling down a hole and not realizing you were in Wonderland until you were suddenly surrounded by talking mock-turtles and rabbits.

Not that that was entirely out of the ordinary for him.

But a girl _wanting _to discuss things with him for long hours certainly was.

Joy would call him on his shell-cell when she'd had a rough day, usually after he finished his shift with RooTTech and before he headed out on patrol with his brothers. Sometimes their discussions were lighthearted and silly, a happy diversion from the chaotic life he led. Other times they were a burden, his mind forced to reflect that despite 'appearances' Joy had originally come to him dealing with several serious issues. The question of where they came from and what she was dealing with plagued him after those calls, enough that his brothers had remarked once or twice on his distracted state.

Despite this, they hadn't quite made the connection between his hours interacting with 'topsiders' and the persistent frown he wore. The good thing about the situation was that if any of the other three saw him on the phone they didn't question it. Instead assuming that he was dealing with a customer on the headset he wore, rather than the handheld device he propped against his "ear", just out of sight.

The first real conversation they'd had—after the first, that is—had been about her name, itself, and the irony of it. Given that, well, it sounded as though there was little enough joy in her life currently.

"I shouldn't complain, though," she had laughed lightly, "considering that you're most likely a 'Donald' and people have probably made a lot of duck-related jokes. You're probably tired of them by now."

He'd opted not to correct her, instead saying, "there's a reason I go by Don or Donny."

The real reason being that Donatello was really rather too conspicuous of a name, and with both the Foot and the Purple Dragons keeping an eye out for them he would really rather not give them any fodder to work with.

Plus it was always an adventure trying to explain that he, a twenty-something living in the current century, was actually named after a Renaissance artist. Good times.

He learned through their conversations that she was an only child, lived with her father, and that her mother had passed away two years ago due to Leukemia. It sounded as though her mother hadn't been strong before the illness was discovered, making the battle short—and apparently expensive.

That same day Joy confided her hatred of hospitals.

"Really?" he asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Joy was quite for a moment, a trait he'd noticed over time as indicating that she was organizing her thoughts. Although the space in which she took to do so had involved less and less time, as though she wasn't hesitating as much when it came to sharing with him, "they're just so…cold. Antiseptic. Unfeeling. They get you in and then out as fast as they can, so that they can help someone more important than you. Never asking where the injuries came from. They just don't care."

Rolling his chair over to the log he kept for such purposes, Donatello added that tidbit of information to his list of, "Things I Know About Joy." It was a page and half long and held details such as, "used to do pottery till age 11. What happened?", "Likes to sing—admits not talented. Truth or no?", plus gems like, "once got saved from a mugging by flying bat creature. Look into?"

Realizing that he'd gone silent for too long, Donny hummed slightly, "it kind of sounds like these experiences are based on something other than your mother's death. Do you want to talk about it?"

She went quiet before saying, rather simply, "well. I cut."

"Cut what?" he prompted absently.

"Myself. My wrists. I'm a cutter."

"What? Why?" he gasped out, almost tumbling out of his chair and onto the nearest desk.

"Because it's something that I can control," Joy said shortly, "and it makes me feel something other than just….numbness."

The young woman gave the details matter-of-factly, but they were only stated as such because he'd worked with her long enough that she didn't fear being straightforward.

Honesty: it was something they'd talked about from the get-go, with Donatello frankly pointing out that if they were going to be "pen-pals" of a kind then she might as well be honest with him.

Of course, she'd never actually extracted the same promise from him—a half-truth of sorts that pricked his conscience from time to time—but he tried to avoid lies and stick close to the truth whenever possible. Or at least an approximation of the truth.

"_I'm not allowed to mingle with humans,"_ became, _"I was home-schooled by my father, as were my brothers, and we didn't have many friends while growing up."_ And _"Mutant Vigilantes"_ shifted into, _"members of the Neighborhood Watch."_

"I suppose that makes sense," Donatello remarked without judgment, although a part of him still couldn't understand _why_, his heart in his throat.

She just seemed so _delightful_, both sweet and interesting; to what purpose could there be in self-harm? Control—yes, he could conceptualize that as being a valid reason, but that necessitated the existence of a scenario in which she didn't _have_ control. He'd tried puzzling it out for several weeks, their conversations sometimes happening once a day and other times maybe one in seven. Even with all the factors Joy had revealed he still couldn't make sense of the situation.

Especially as, having been made an unwilling "volunteer" of Stockman, Bishop,_ and_ Karai, the concept of deliberately hurting oneself made him ill.

"Although that really is too bad," he said out of the blue, seeking to brighten the mood.

The girl was puzzled, "that I cut myself?"

_Well, yes. That too._

Donny coughed, "that you hate hospitals. Given that I'm an Emergency Medical Technician."

The turtle made a point to drop the 'licensed' part. Not that his instruction was lacking, self-mediated though it was. Nor that he didn't have enough 'hands-on' experience. No, he was on par with his peers in everything but a formal education.

Her huff of laughter told him that his ploy at distracting her had worked, "you…you are?"

"Yep, and I can honestly tell you that, while very clean, my lab is anything_ but_ 'unfeeling.'"

Especially when Mikey got it into his head that 'Snakes on a Plane' should really be read as, 'Rubber Snakes in a Train(Station).' It had been pretty funny at first—when involving Raph and Leo—until he discovered several plastic specimen among the test tubes he kept in the infirmary's refrigerator.

Putting all the then-frozen toys into Michelangelo's bed right before he went to sleep had been satisfying enough that he hadn't retaliated any further; the punishment had fit the crime.

Still, that day his 'clinic' had been anything _but_ unfeeling. After all, Mikey had definitely been _feeling_ _it_ afterward.

"So you're a doctor?" the question was asked with something stilted to it, halfway between unease and disquiet.

"Something like that," he tried to soften the imagery, "I have a very small clinic and an even tinier clientele. Kind of like a…ah, a focus group," one side of his mouth twitched and Donny wondered how his brothers would react to that description. They'd been called many things, but 'focus group' was not one of them, "but I've been told that I have a really good bedside manner," well, mostly. Not while Raph or Casey were involved, certainly.

"But I thought that you worked in…Tech Support?" she prompted, confused.

"I do. It's my day job, while working at the clinic is…" the turtle thought quickly, "well, it's on a volunteer basis. And even if I _did_ get paid," he whirled around in his chair and thought about his family's utter lack, monetarily, "I wouldn't earn very much."

"Oh. And the Neighborhood Watch?"

"Also volunteering. Completely _gratis_. Consider me a concerned citizen."

"Plus you i-invent stuff, too?"

"When I have the time. Which is rare."

"When do you sleep?" she asked, mystified.

Donatello turned in his chair, using his foot to propel himself as he grinned, "what is this 'sleep' you speak of?"

Joy laughed and something clenched in his stomach. Warmth and exhilaration rushed beneath his reptilian skin and the scientific part of his mind mentally catalogued it under positive endorphins brought about by the conversation. He had a similar reaction when involved in intellectual debate, therefore he compartmentalized the reaction and didn't give it any more of his attention.

~/~/~

"So do you have a girlfriend?" the question was innocent enough, but he nearly sprayed grape soda all along the Gatling gun he was trying to fix because of it (there was really no point in wasting time sitting stationary when he could be doing something as they talked).

"Oh! I'm sorry! Are you okay?" Joy asked worriedly as he coughed and spluttered.

"I'm fine," Donatello croaked as he tried to clear the rest of the carbonated drink, a vocal rasp the aftereffects of his mental stumble. He moved the half-empty can far, far away from him. And thought about setting aside his project for good measure, then decided against it.

"Um, I…I didn't mean to startle you. Or if they question makes you uncomfortable. I—."

"No, Joy, it's fine. Yeah, it's fine," he waved away her concern, even though she couldn't see him, "it was just," he laughed weakly, "unexpected is all."

"Do you not get that question much?"

_Well, yeah, but…_

"I just work a lot. So, you know, there's not really a lot of time for, well, dating," or opportunities to do so, he added silently.

"Then…then there's no girls that you like?" she prompted hesitantly.

Well, if that wasn't a kettle of worms he didn't know _what_ was.

The turtle opened his beak. Snapped it shut. Ran a three-fingered hand over his face, scrubbing slightly…and likely getting grease all over his skin. Then sighed.

"There was this…this girl."

"Yes?" his 'pen pal' prompted him in a whisper, "what was she like?" Joy's question came almost eagerly and Donny blinked. _Why did she really want to know?_ he wondered. Maybe it had to do with the seemingly female curiosity so often portrayed on his father's Soaps. Not that that had any basis in actual fact. Either way, he searched for an answer.

"Well. She, um," he scratched at the back of his domed head. Feeling as though, Murphy's Law being what it was, April might walk in at any moment. Don whirled around to face the lab door.

He tried a different direction, "I told you that we were homeschooled, correct?"

"Right."

"Well, she…she was kind of the first girl we ever really got to know. Or at least got close to," he added quickly, "our father was pretty protective."

"I…I see?"

The young man took a deep breath and forged onward, although it really was more like a 'stumble' than anything, "she was…is…ah, well, she loves everyone. She's friendly. Smart. Intelligent. Really quite intelligent."

"Donny, you just said the same thing twice," she smiled into the phone.

He blushed hotly, knowing that his cheeks were probably a dark green, "well, it's something that you noticed immediately. Notice. Present tense."

"'Present tense'?" the human asked, confused.

"She's still in our lives," he confided with a slight touch of melancholy and a larger degree of resigned fondness.

Joy paused at that bit of information, "why didn't anything, you know, happen?"

Donatello chuckled, "because she married one of my best friends."

His new companion groaned on the other side of the call and he added his own laughter to her sympathetic noises.

"Look, even if she hadn't married Casey," the turtle continued with a chortle, "I don't think I'm exactly her type."

"Well, why not?" Joy asked almost defensively; as though she was defending him from his own opinion. He blinked, then grinned.

"For one I'm over ten years her junior—I was crushing on her when I was fifteen."

"Oh, ouch. I'm sorry," his sympathetic listener hissed.

"And for another, I'm much shorter than her," _plus green,_ he mentally added, "and not exactly the best looking guy around."

She made a scoffing noise, sounding tinny in the earpiece, "oh, I doubt that."

"Doubt what?"

"That you're ugly."

That got a startled laugh out of him, "oh really? And how do you know that, exactly?"

"The same way that you know that I don't look like a horse," she said smugly.

His bark of laughter cut off the sound of Leo and Raph fighting in the den for a moment and he reminded himself to be a little more careful.

Still, he was smiling as he said, "touché."

She didn't seem to hear him, going on, "your personality is just too sweet for that," the girl continued simply, as though the truth was laid out before her like a deck of cards, "and your voice is like chocolate."

There was a hush on both ends as they registered what had been said.

"Wha…um," he laughed weakly, his neck suddenly feeling hot, "did you just say that my voice…my voice reminds you of _chocolate?_"

There was a large degree of hesitance one the line, then a deeply indrawn breath, "yes. I did."

Just three word—just a single 'yes' and he was flushed with heat. And Donny couldn't even _see_ the girl that was making him feel that way. She was halfway across the city as it was! The vigilante gaped like a fish instead of the reptile he was as the hand-held phone, not quite knowing to do with the seemingly innocent device.

"Like…like milk chocolate, especially," Joy continued with a harsh gulp.

"Ah…"

"Sweet and…healing. Like the stuff in _'Harry Potter.'_ That Lupin gives him on the train?"

_Lupin_. His favorite character from the series. The fact that the character had lost his chance for a happy ending had nearly broken his heart when he first read the lines.

"I imagine you," she continued in his vocal absence, as though talking to herself, "that you're medium build with short, dark hair—so that it stays out of your face. Maybe Latin-American?"

His 'lips' quirked upward on the one side, "actually, my last name is Japanese."

"Japanese?" she echoed in surprise.

He coughed, trying to skirt around actually lying, "we come by way of Japan."

"Then…then if I think that your eyes are brown, then I'm probably not wrong, then?"

"Maybe."

"I imagine them…being like hot cocoa. After the marshmallows have m-melted."

Something in his stomach tightened at that. Her guess at his appearance was flawed due to her assumption that he was the same species as her. But the eyes were right on the money. April described them as 'coffee with heavy creamer', and the realization cut off his breath.

"Well, you're partially correct," he said softly, "but not completely."

"That's okay," Joy remarked with a smile to her voice, "the fact that I'm even sorta right makes me happy."

There was a pause, then, "what about me? You must have at least wondered what I look like, too."

_Yes._ Innumerable times.

His throat was dry, "well, um, yes. I just…whatever I thought of didn't, you know, do you justice. Or seem to fit."

"Well, is there anything that keeps coming to mind?"

_Oh, boy. _Donny sighed, setting down the screw driver that he hadn't used since their conversation started—there really was no point now, "well, it's not much…"

"But?"

He looked at his wall of screens, gaze unfocussed and turned inward. Without noticing it his shoulders dropped and breathing ran deeper, "…soft eyes. I can't settle on a color, but I imagine you with soft, kind eyes."

"Oh," her exhalation was surprised.

The techie winced, "look, ah, I'm sorry if I—."

"No, it's okay. Thank you, Donny," she said thoughtfully.

Desperate to change the subject, he took a breath and asked without thinking, "and what about you, Joy? Do you date?" The minute it came out he was cursing himself. Her breath had drawn in sharply and the conversation cooled significantly.

Stupid. _Stupid._

Still she tried to respond, "I'm. No. No, I don't like being touched."

Touched? What did that have to do with—?

"But maybe I'll date in the future."

"That's…that's good."

"Yes, it is."

~/~/~

"Are you doing okay?" he asked hesitantly.

"I will be. I just," she pulled in a deep breath, "I just need a d-distraction. Tell me about what you're working on."

He looked down at the rocket pack he had on hand and hesitated. Moving on to a more…viable project, the next pile over, "um. I'm installing a new scanner in the infirmary. My brother Michel—ah, _Mikey_, broke the last one."

~/~/~

"Can you suggest any books?"

"Well, there's _Ringworld_ by Larry Niven and _I, Robo_—."

"Do you have any about someone…dealing with p-problems?"

He frowned, worry tugging at him, "what kind of problems?"

"Nothing specific. Just, um," she tapped the side of her phone, making him wince. Huffed, "just something that makes you b-believe in the human race, you know? Something that gives you hope?"

Reminded of a specific line of dialogue, his mouth was opening before he realized it, "Anne Frank. _The Diary of a Young Girl_. Or _To Kill a Mockingbird_, by Harper Lee. Um, I'm not sure if they're what you would call 'hopeful,' though—."

"That's fine. I trust you."

~/~/~

The buzz of his shell-cell startled him halfway through a call one day, sending his heart rate running like a racehorse. It was out of the blue, and what's more, in the middle of the day when Joy knew that he was working. And his brothers were all at home currently, puttering around doing shell-knew what. Which meant that it had to be an emergency.

"Look, Mr. Fredricksen, I hate to tell you this, but it looks like you've been hacked. _Yes_, hacked. If you'd like I can email you a list of approved virus protection software?" Donny tried to rush the conversation to its close. Angry grumbling came from the ornery octogenarian on the other end, "yes, I _am _aware that part of the reason you called was because you couldn't open your email. But do you have a library card? I am not asking frivolous questions, I promise you. Why? Because you can use the computers there to ope—hello? _Hello?_"

A dial tone was his only answer and while the mutant felt mildly guilty for abandoning the pessimistic curmudgeon, he didn't feel _that_ guilty.

Logging off the RooTTech application—he wasn't about to steal hours while talking to Joy, no matter how hard up his family was—Donatello dodged a look over his shoulder to make sure that the lab door was shut and then ducked low in his seat, voice even.

"This is Don. What's wrong?" he said after pressing the call button. Sobs were his only answer.

And continued to be so for the next fifteen minutes as Joy tried to explain what had happened.

"_Why?_ Why me? Why c-can't I just be l-left alone?"

"I…I _h-hate_ her. She's g-gone and now…"

"...he…oh, _no_."

Running his free hand tightly over his dome and dragging the end of his bandana down into a knotted fist, Donatello breathed hard through his mouth. He had to force himself not to crush the shell-cell in his grip. Even so he knew, based on the subtle creaking beside his 'ear', that the casing was likely going to be warped after all was said and done.

"Joy, I…I can't understand what you're saying," the vigilante whispered mournfully, anxiety rising at the fact that he couldn't _do_ anything; on the other side of the phone line, his hands were tied, "I want to help but…but I can't if you don't clarify. Oh, _Joy_," he murmured as the crying became harder and harsher, slowly slipping into hushed words of reassurance as she continued falling apart.

Only when she had calmed significantly did he try again.

"Joy…what happened?"

"It doesn't matter," came the hoarse whisper, low and despondent, "none of it matters—_**I **_don't matter."

"You _do_ matter," he argued in her name.

"No I don't."

He hesitated, wetting his lips before admitting quietly, "you matter to me."

She seemed not to hear him, only harsh gasping coming through the call. The young man held his breath as he waited.

Finally a sigh came, "D-Donny?"

"Yes?" he prompted, anxious with worry.

"Can I c-call you tomorrow?"

"Of course you can, Joy," he breathed.

There was silence and then…

"…thank you."

The call disconnected.

Their next conversation began with an apology, but Joy never did explain what had happened.

~/~/~

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"W-what's to talk about?"

"Well, you obviously seem upset."

"Maybe it's 'cause I can't make any friends."

The dry, ironic tone of her voice made him frown, "that can't be right—everyone has friends. Even I, the antisocial, homeschooled workaholic, have at least a few friends."

"Well, you must be better at finding them than I am, then," Joy said sarcastically. It was so completely out of character that his eye ridges jumped in surprise.

What was wrong with her today?

"Joy…did something happen at school?" he'd slowly figured out that she was in school right now, although he hadn't asked which level. Part of him wondered just _how young_ she was, but he tried to avoid that thought. Once Donny labeled her, even with something so simple as an age, the turtle had a feeling that he might treat her differently. Lecture her or parent her or something.

Or back off. That was a distinct possibility, given that he was slightly worried about how…attached they were starting to become. Were becoming. It was complicated. And a bit worrying.

_We are just 'phone friends', nothing more,_ Donatello sternly reminded himself. Although the 'friendly' aspect of that title seemed to be missing that night for some reason.

The girl's sudden and heavy sigh answered his previous question, interrupting his thought processes.

Donatello matched her heavy breathing with some of his own, "okay, what happened?"

"Ed Peterson poured orange juice into my backpack," she explained flatly, the most irritated he'd ever heard her, "I mean, normally I wouldn't care—I'm used to it by now—."

"_Used to it?!_"

"—but my book of Emily Dickinson poems was in there and now it's just…destroyed. Everything's sticky, too. And now I have to rewrite three of my papers, because the pen bled through," she huffed through her nose, exhaustion showing through, "all my notes are ruined, too."

The terrapin's grimace grew steadily more and more pained and at the end of it he whistled, "wow, that's pretty terrible, Joy."

In fact, it reminded him of the one time Mikey decided that his stack of floppy disks—back when he actually used floppy disks—were perfect for using as mini-plates in the microwave. That had been a dark day in the Lair and one of the few times Donatello had actually become vocal in his anger.

"I _know_. And I…I'd just caught up on my work after having been…um, sick," she mumbled, before rushing to continue, "but now I have to do all those assignments _all over again._"

He frowned, "Joy. When exactly _were_ you sick?" They'd been talking steadily for almost the past two weeks, ever since she—

Her quick breath and rushed hesitance were blatantly obvious, "um, it was just last week. I wasn't anything, I was just…I couldn't get out of bed. That's all. For a couple of days."

Ice crystalized in his lungs, "Joy. Were you 'sick' the night when you…when you were upset?"

His voice was stilted with anxiety, hand gripping the joystick control in front of him tight enough that he was surprised it hadn't snapped off yet.

"Look. It doesn't matter. I…It was just an accident."

He was quiet and deliberate at that, "so were you _sick_ or was it an _accident?_"

Dead air came from the other end of the call, then—

"You're not my Father, Don. So don't try to butt into my business."

Then she hung up on him.

He had no way to call her back.

~/~/~

AN: This was an interesting chapter to write, mostly as it's basically made up of disjointed mood swings. It's as though I've been writing the film "The Lake House" in fanfiction format. If, that is, "The Lake House" was supposed to spiral out of control. ^_^; *embarrassed smile*

I promise that there's going to be action in the next chapter, though. :) And the entrance of at least one or two other characters.

As things stand, I'm sure that a few individuals are putting the pieces together. And I know that I put the "trigger warning" up there for Chapter 3, but really…it's going to be for Chapter 4. The conversations in this just went a little long. *shrugs*

_Ringworld_ (Larry Niven), _I, Robot _(Isaac Asimov), _The Diary of a Young Girl_ (Anne Frank), and _To Kill a Mockingbird _(Harper Lee) are all books that I read from the age of twelve to fourteen or fifteen, I believe. They all are excellent, made an indelible impression on me, and I would suggest each and every one of them. :)

The quote that made Donny think of _The Diary of a Young Girl_ is this one:

"_In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again." _


	4. No More

**Hotline**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one turtle's choice affects the entire team.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except for fond childhood memories of watching turtle cartoons on Saturday mornings.

**IMPORTANT AUTHOR NOTE:**

**THIS IS THE CHAPTER! If you have "trigger" issues involving abuse, depression, or PTSD be warned that there will be some mature elements. Nothing graphic (because I skew on the clean side of things out of personal preference and respect for others), but enough to cause anxiety.**

**It is because of this chapter that I was hesitating on the rating. Despite this, I still believe that this is a 'T' fic—let me know if you think otherwise.**

**On that note: a few people are probably going to be upset with me regarding the topic. A few might even say, "that doesn't happen in real life." But to ignore true events provides opportunities for more people to get hurt. Ignoring it doesn't make it less true or make that truth go away.**

**We share stories of the bad things which happen to us so that we can prevent and protect others from becoming victims or targets themselves.**

**This chapter is dedicated to my family, after 15 years of long roads.**

~/~/~

Chapter 4: No More

"_You come to me with scars on your wrist  
You tell me this will be the last night feeling like this  
_[I just came to say goodbye  
I didn't want you to see me cry, I'm fine]_  
But I know it's a lie._

_This is the last night you'll spend alone_  
_Look me in the eyes so I know you know_  
_I'm everywhere you want me to be._  
_The last night you'll spend alone,_  
_I'll wrap you in my arms and I won't let go,_  
_I'm everything you need me to be."_

-Skillet, "The Last Night"

"We need to stop meeting like this," the words came out with a smile.

After a rough patch their relationship had been going better for the two of them, but it went in ebbs and flows. Still, being how things went, he was never quite sure what state Joy would be in upon calling. Sometimes she phoned because she was upset. Other times it was merely because she wanted some company, or even help with her homework (and didn't that make him feel odd, explaining mathematics over the phone with no paper to work with). Either way he aimed to lighten the mood right off the bat, for her sake. Where their 'talks' went from there was all up to her.

And for what it was worth, she seemed to rally herself by the end of their discussions. For which he was grateful; not being physically present, it was almost painful knowing that he had no ability to help her beyond what they shared. So if his words soothed some of her pain then he was all for it.

Joy's hiccups came through the line, interrupting his thoughts. Instantly he knew that it was going to be one of _those_ talks.

Heart clenching, the next words to tumble forth were careful and concerned, "Joy, are you alright?"

"I…no. Oh, Donny. It's all gone wrong. How-I…I don't know what to do?"

Well, fixing things was his specialty, he thought with a wry twist of his mouth. Although since he had started in on his friendship with Joy it had become something more like a frantic struggle to pick up the pieces.

"I…um I. I just, I wanted to t-tell you, I…" her attempts to speak were washed away by a heavy sigh, as though giving in to some sort of internal battle. With it he could almost imagine puppet strings being cut, "Donny, could you—could you tell me about your family? What's it l-like having a h-happy one?"

The abrupt change in topic caught him off guard like a bo to the gut. Of course, her words finally gave him the clue he'd been looking for, confirming something he'd suspected for a while now. _'A happy one.'_ It was the missing puzzle piece. He'd been wondering if that played a part in her difficulties, but she had never really touched on the subject. So until she actually confirmed his suspicions, his hands were tied.

"Okay," he pulled in a breath, settling in for yet another possibly difficult evening. The fact that the Foot had been more active lately didn't help, either—both Leo and Raph had been on edge for days and everyone had caught the backlash, "well, I'm not sure if I would always describe my family as happy, per se," he said, working frantically to come up with a way to describe his rather unconventional social unit.

Clear sniffles were added to the mix, "_p-please_ Donny."

His reserves melted, "…alright."

_Um, where to start?_

"There are four of us brothers—I know that I've at least mentioned Mikey," at her solemn 'yes' he went on, "and you already known that I was, ah, that we were homeschooled. We were raised by a single father. We have a fri—."

"What about your mother? W-what happened to her?"

"Our mother?" the turtle blinked, having forgotten about that little detail. Well, most humans had mothers, didn't they? It was funny how he hadn't ever thought about it—between his father and close family-friends there hadn't been an emotional lack.

"Um, I never really knew her, I guess. She was long-gone by the time I…ah, came along."

"Oh," Joy murmured softly, "I'm so sorry. For your father."

"He doesn't talk about it much," Donny offered truthfully, before adding, "but I do get the feeling that he's lonely sometimes. Especially in being so far from home."

"You mentioned that you were Japanese-American?"

"Sort of," he tempered, "anyway, there isn't a lot of extended family here. Just a few close family friends. April and Casey, mostly. I…um, April was the girl I mentioned a while back and Casey—?."

"He's her husband?"

"Yes. She's kind of like a big sister now, and Casey is always there when you need him."

Donatello paused a moment, hesitating at the thought of testing their fragile faith in one another, "Joy?"

"Yes?"

"Does the reason you're asking me these things have anything to do with the fact that you never mention your father?"

A choked sob was his answer. "h-he's been checking my calls. I j-just wanted to say good…goodbye. Donny, I'm so s-sorry…"

And then she continued crying in earnest. His heart lurched to a stop and his brain—typically a well-oiled machine, continually making observations and connections—halted in its tracks.

But just as his body shot down, like hitting a brick while, something stronger bubbled to the surface.

_**NO.**_

No, they weren't going to end like this. Not here, not now. Not with Joy in danger. He wouldn't allow it, especially while he had the opportunity to do something about it. And, boy, did he have the means to 'do something about it.'

The vigilante opened up the tracer program he'd started running weeks and weeks ago. The words, "Trace Call?" had been blinking at him repeatedly, her original number burned into the search bar, but he'd never had the heart to actually do it—too secure in the knowledge that doing so would invade her privacy or breach the trust between them. He pressed 'yes' now without any hesitation. Less than a minute later he had his result, the address leading to a tenement in the rougher side of town, but not a specific apartment number.

Forcing his voice into calmness, Donny asked, "Joy, what did he do?" even as his blunted fingers flew over the keyboard nearest to him. The name 'Joy' didn't get any hits from the list of residents, nor 'Joyce.' But he wasn't about to give up if she was in danger.

"He…I…oh, Donny I _can't _tell you. He would _kill_ me," the fact that she was worried about her life, rather than trying to take it, was a minor victory he didn't have time to focus on currently. Especially with the earnestness of her plea, truth dripping off her words.

The turtle blinked as that sunk in—she_ truly_ believed that her father would harm her if she said anything, even to a complete stranger over the phone. Maybe because the man had followed through on a previous threat, Donatello reflected speculatively.

He typed faster.

"Joy, I promise you right now that I will keep that from happening," he said soothingly right as a computer speaker chimed. _Eureka._ Rolling toward it Donny saw his good ol' trusty turtle search engine ask in green, "did you mean 'Joiyce?'"

He blinked—an alternate spelling, _of course._

Clinking on it, what came up was a renter's agreement, several doctor's notes releasing her from school—his mouth tightened as he read the information scrawled in. Just how many times could someone 'fall down the stairs,' without anyone noticing, he wondered?—and a very short obituary. Knowing that the latter was probably regarding her mother's death, he scanned it for names and then cross-referenced it with the other documents to make sure that he was on the right track.

_Anthony Roberts and Joiyce Roberts. Having one daughter, Joi Roberts. _He would have to remember the alternate spelling.

The apartment document came with a photocopy of the man's driver's license, an unsmiling snapshot of a grizzled human in his forties, having heavy sideburns and a bulldog neck. Donny resisted the urge to search out a photo of Joy—_Joi,_ he sternly reminded himself—knowing that he would see her when he saw her. It was better to leave first impressions for a time when she had equal opportunity to see him back—fair was fair, after all.

Although he wasn't quite sure when he'd made that decision—to trust her with their biggest secret. He only knew that when the thought came to mind it dominated his thoughts, certainty shaking his core.

_This was the right thing to do. He could trust her._

That's when the turtle realized that her side of the conversation had gone silent. And then there was the sound of a slamming door. Of broken glass and fumbling movement. Without realizing it Donny clenched the joystick of his nearest modified keypad, snapping it in half. Then he could hardly catch his own breath for the fear which blocked his windpipe.

"Joi? Are you there?" he whispered.

Her breathing came shallow and quick.

"I'm…he's here. He's home early. I'm under the b-bed. He-he's usually drunk, so he s-shouldn't find me…"

The hero bit back a curse, knowing that any word of his spoken too loud might give her hiding spot away.

"Joi…I'm going to be right over. You hear me? You stay under that bed and don't come out."

"N-no!" she said, harsh and stuttering, "No, when he…when he drinks he gets violent. If he s-sees me with you then he'll," she gulped a hiccupping breath, "he's gonna—!"

Whatever she was going to say was cut off with a shriek, high and feminine, and a deep growl. A crash and the sound of springs told him that the bed had been lifted and then tossed aside, like a broken toy, but even with the clatter of a dropped phone he could clearly hear a man yelling in drunken rage.

"I KNEW IT, YOU WHORE! SLUT!"

There was a crash as Donny stared at his shell-cell in horror. Further violence and crying were heard through the telephone, though muffled, before the call disconnected. Cutting Joi's pleading off mid-sentence.

The normally placid, pacifistic turtle didn't hesitate. Turning once to memorize the address he was about to head for, Donatello snapped up his bo staff and tightened his belt, running for the door.

The slam into his brother was spectacular, only their mutual ninja training saving them both from serious injury.

"Woah, woah, woah! Where's da fire, Don?" Raph shouted, hand gripping the olive turtle's shoulder.

His response was harsh, "I can't talk right now, I have to—," he stopped and blinked at whom he was talking to, "actually, Raph, I need your help."

The rogue was wary, "wit' what?"

"With saving someone's life."

That was all the explanation he needed.

"I'm in."

Snagging up his pair of sai, Raphael followed his lead.

~/~/~

"You've bin doin' _what-now _fer a month n' a half?!"

Of course, once they were on their way Raph had to ask about the 'mission's' details.

"I've been carefully coaching a suicidal girl through her issues. Basically, she just needed a listening ear and a friend to talk to. Of course, I _knew_ that there was a deeper issue, but she would never discuss it. Now I know why."

His brother halted abruptly on the rooftop, a hint of reflective light bouncing off one shoulder but otherwise remaining entirely in shadow. Still, Donatello could imagine the look on his face—as though Raph had never seen him before. Or as though he'd grown a second mutated head.

"You sweet on 'her then, Donny?" he asked in an odd sort of voice.

The medic blanked in astonishment. _Of all times to ask a question like that…_ "of course not! We just talk. I keep her level."

It wasn't until several more roofs later that he voiced his secondary thought, "who ever heard of someone falling in love with a voice, anyway?"

His brother caught up with him at that point and shot him a wry look, "you've obviously neva' seen 'You've Got Mail' or 'Lake House,' have ya? It's not 'bout da voice—it's what da voice is sayin'."

"Raph, now is not the time," Donatello cut him off, although the part of him which compartmentalized conversations registered that they now knew who had been watching those two movies on Netflix—Mikey had been going for April, but his money had been on Splinter.

But that wasn't really important currently.

Bringing up a mental picture of the apartment building's setup, he took a stab at the correct room and began climbing down the closest fire escape. From that point he put his ear to the brickwork and just _listened_—it wasn't hard to find the Roberts' place after that.

"YOU B—!" there was a crash of something being thrown against the wall and a thump on the windowsill.

Beside him Raphael's eye ridges jumped up above his bandana. He didn't say anything—his face just went dark and vengeful.

Donatello had no time to register the expression, running to the window and fiddling with it till the thing slid open, sticking in a few places—which of course brought the situation all the more in relief. The sound, vivid and violent, cut through to their senses, trained as they were to pick up the tiniest of echoing footfalls. In contrast this was painful and grating.

"No, p-please! Please don't hurt me, it was just a f-fiend! From school!"

His stomach dropped. That was Joi's voice, no doubt about it. The ninja climbed in silently, step by careful step until he reached the back room, Donny hardly registering that Raph was even with him. The rest of the apartment was bare, a mix of yellowed fixtures and fraying furniture. Nothing decorative existed to create a feeling of hominess or welcome—only the harsh realities of her life.

He also noticed that several pieces of furniture were patched up, likely from being thrown around in the past…and as though violence was a regular thing for Mr. Roberts.

Another crash and tumble came, followed by a pained cry. The turtle growled and burst through the door, giving up stealth in his anger.

The room was a mess. The bed Joi had been hiding under had been flung across the room, lavender bedspread and pillows falling willy-nilly. A few small, framed photos had been thrown about like missiles, broken glass beneath his double toes, and a slim selection of pallid outfits were strewn about the floor as though someone had torn through her closet in a search for Narnia. A painted lamp designed to resemble one of Van Gogh's sunflower pieces, the background a cheerful turquoise, was utterly decimated, the china shattered and shade leaning to the side upon the ground like a wounded soldier on the battlefield.

What few novels existed in the room, cracked spines and blunted corners and all, had been ripped apart so that the flooring appeared to be covered in snow.

Snow and shrapnel.

Among this wreckage was a serial attacker, who had managed to corner his victim and pin her down against the bare floorboards, using his heavier build as leverage.

Roberts leered down at his daughter, the hand gripping her hair simultaneously elbowing her collarbone and the other bending her arm back. It looked like he'd been scrambling around with her shirt just minutes before, the sleeve on one side ripped so that the rest of the shirt flapped loose, like torn flesh. Her leg was bent at an impossible angle and a cut along her forehead dripped blood down the right side of her face.

As for the man himself, he leaned over her, trying to knee her legs apart, his belt half undone. The young woman had locked her good ankle around the bad despite the leg injury but with each pained hiss her arm was being pulled further and further back—soon enough it would be pulled from her socket, and the agony of the experience would lower her defenses.

Donatello didn't need to pause to think through is actions.

With a roar he backhanded the human male with the business end of his staff, turning to hit him another time in the face when Roberts was unwillingly flipped around. With a choked yelp the man went flying into Raphael's waiting arms, whereupon a sai was hooked on his wrist and he was expertly flipped over and sent flying toward the floor. A final thump on the head left him out cold before Raph began kicking the unconscious offender for good measure, but not so much as it was life-threatening—they didn't want to leave anything too incriminating behind and it was better that others thought perhaps Joi herself had done the job.

The younger brother hardly noted, rushing forward to the girl cowering in the corner.

"N-no, no PLEASE! P-please leave me alone!" not looking up, she had tucked her injured arm to her chest while the other flailed futilely, slapping his shoulders and hitting him once in the face, but not enough to do more than sting.

He tried to catch the offending limb, "hey, hey, Joi! It's me, it's Donny. You're fine, you're_ safe!_"

"No! Let go!" she shouted, eyes closed as her rescuer caught her free hand. Then he was pulling her up against his plastron, mouth next to her ear as he tried to be heard over her wailing.

"Joi, Joi! It's me, Donny. Don, from the telephone. He's not going to hurt you, you hear me. I promised that you would be safe_. You're safe now._ Nothing's going to happen to you. You're okay, you need to calm down. Please, Joi, I'm right here," the words, spoken directly in her ear, had an abrupt effect. The girl froze and for the first time the turtle realized that he could feel her ribs through the baggy layer she was wearing. She was practically skeletal, in fact, the wrist he gripped bearing testament to self-inflicted tracks from base to elbow.

"Oh,_ Joi_," he breathed and her name, said in such a tone, sent fawn-colored eyes up to his just once before they rolled back in a dead faint.

~/~/~

The trip back was a doozy, to provide the understatement of the century.

They'd tied Roberts up and left an anonymous tip for the police regarding a domestic disturbance, and then they were up and on the rooftops, running as though the Foot were on their heels. Donatello was so incredibly submerged in worry, in fact, that he almost forgot the precautionary steps they had to take to protect the location of the Lair.

And the fact that Raphael was the one to remind him of, "da rules," was an irony not lost on either of them.

After that it was a frantic struggle to heal her wounds before she woke up, forcing himself to focus on caring for her individual parts—leg, arm, forehead—rather than her appearance as a whole. She was a patient, first and foremost, and he could worry about the rest later—especially as thinking about the origin of her wounds made his hands shake.

A rather detrimental and somewhat dangerous state of being, given his occupations.

Anxious himself, Raph had called up April, suggesting that she bring, "da kind of tings dat make a scared girl feel less scared," believe it or not. He hadn't had the time to even thank his brother for the thoughtful request, mind to intent on sterilizing needles, packing poultices and setting a rather painfully broken bone.

Twenty minutes later the Antiquities Dealer had arrived, duffle bag in hand, shooing him out of the infirmary. She'd taken over with the remaining medical tasks, checking small bumps and bruises and cleaning up blood more thoroughly as he paced outside.

She would also be able to make a more thorough analysis of Joi's physical health. A task aided by the fact that, 1. she was human and thus more aware of what was 'normal' for a healthy Homo Sapien, and 2. female, helping him respect the young woman's privacy while also making certain that she was fully cared for.

As he waited for the results he alternated between balancing on the balls of his feet, to resting on the couch with bo in hand, to pacing, and back again. He was on step two of the process when the infirmary door finally slid open, the redhead tiptoeing out and releasing an exhausted sigh only after the portal had closed. Now he forced himself to set his weapon aside, placing it into a popcorn tin-turned umbrella stand so that he kept one of Splinter's many canes company.

"Well, you were right to be worried," April said tiredly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

The single sentence punched a hole in his gut, leaving him breathless and worried, "what's wrong? What happened?"

The older woman took in a gulp of breath, hesitating, "do you want the whole list at once, or things in parts?"

"I'd rather know everything from the get-go."

"Right," the former reporter whispered, roughly combing a hand through her hair before facing him fully, "So. Joi. She's anorexic, scarily underweight, anxious, and prone to self-destructive behavior, as I just found out a couple of minutes ago. I had to hide everything sharp—which was a lot, I'll have you know."

He did know, being familiar with the equipment he kept in his infirmary.

In fact, the whole room was permanently burned into his mind—flashes of stark memory reminding him of this wrap or that stitch. In a way he felt almost ashamed for the limited care he'd administered while she was unconscious, on top of the other indignities she had suffered, but as a medic he knew that the pain would be worse ten times worse had she been alert. He would just as soon avoid that.

"She's a cutter and a nail-biter. Also she…"April sighed and pulled her hair off to the side, touching the back of her neck, "'Joi' has a bald spot—right here, where you mostly can't see it. I think that she's been pulling her hair out."

Donny blinked, "what? Why? Why would anyone want to…"

He trailed off as he remembered one of their earliest conversations—_control_, it was all about having control of something in her life. And knowing now what she was dealing with, the anorexia was probably brought about by a similar impetus.

The glance April sent toward him was heavy and knowing. She ran a rough hand through her red waves and continued.

"There was a piece of broken glass in the cut. Donny-I…I think he hit her over the head with a bottle," she bit her lip, trying desperately to keep her tone level," and…she's been asking for you. Has been since the moment she woke up."

That surprised him, like a jolt to the system. But almost immediately his shoulders hunched together in worry, "alright, I'll…I'll head in. Are you sure she's ready to see…?"

Her shrug was helpless, "now's as good a time as ever. But Donny…"

She seemed to be bracing herself to say more and, stomach lurching, he asked, "what is it?"

"Donny, this girl is dealing with a lot—beyond anything I know how to help with. Plus I…I think," the older woman licked her lips and put her hands on her hips, looking away from him as she pronounced, "I think that her father may have been abusing her in other ways. But there's really no way to be_ sure_ until she says something. And she might not ever tell us, due to the trauma."

He tried to block out even the _thought_ of that; despite his medical training and years as vigilante his mind was yet unable to even conceptualize a scenario in which a father did that to his own daughter. But he'd seen more than an enough evidence during their brief encounter to know that what she was saying was

true.

"At this point, if I was her, I would be trying to forget everything and fast. But if she buries it then it's like a rotting foundation—everything seems fine until someone steps wrong, and then it crumbles out beneath your feet."

At his frown she continued, "look, I'm just saying…you need to know that this is going to probably be an uphill battle. We'll all have to be patient and not try to push her—regardless of the fact that having that information may be the thing we need to put him behind bars."

Head lifting sharply, Donny focused on the one thing that he _could _do to further protect Joi, "you don't need to worry about that—at least temporarily."

She chewed on her thumbnail, biting it down to the nail bed, "okay. If you can stall for time then, well, we'll see what kind of case we can throw together. But there's really no way for us to help unless she—unless _Joi_—wants to be helped."

He sighed, scrubbing a weary hand over his face, "understood."

~/~/~

AN: So, there it was. The difficult chapter. Things will become less problematic as we move on, but this is really just the starting point in her healing process. Overall I hope that everyone thinks that I dealt with the subject in the best way that I could have. :S

Secondary, minor note: some people might be wondering why I changed the spelling of her name from "Joy" to "Joi."

I'll tell you why—it's because my name is spelled Maaike and pronounced "Mikey." XD

As soon as she 'said' in my head that her name was Joi I decided to run with the scenario, as I've always disliked in fanfics where a canon character knows instinctively how to spell an odd name and it's never addressed. Especially as that never happens in real life—trust me, I know. :|

The conversation involving Donny's family is a shout-out to all of those amazing single-parent households out there who have to take on not one role, but two. Especially to single fathers, who simply do not get enough credit, and my mother, who deserves far more than she has ever received. :)

Last but not least (because I keep forgetting to include it), A BIG SHOUT-OUT TO MY GUEST REVIEWERS!

**Meep:** I tried not to take too long. ;-) I hope that this one meets expectations! It was definitely an adventure writing it, that's for sure. ^_^;

**Miranda:** Yay! I'm glad that my nerdy references aren't falling on deaf ears, and thank you SO much. I was really worried about my approach. :S

**Random Reader: **I'm happy that I've made you smile and I'll do my best to continue working on this. Life is a tad stressful for me right now, but I'm definitely going to try my best to finish this one.

Thanks, everyone, for your reviews and kindness. I'll try to get working on the next chapter as soon as possible. :)


	5. Verbal Tightropes

**Hotline**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one turtle's choice affects the entire team.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except for fond childhood memories of watching turtle cartoons on Saturday mornings.

**Quick Author Note:** Donatello's nickname will be written as "Donny" rather than "Donnie" in this, as determined by the subtitles of the live action films. I wasn't sure which spelling to go with, but that little detail became the deciding factor. :)

~/~/~

Chapter 5: Verbal Tightropes

"_We all begin with good intent  
Love was raw and young  
We believed that we could change ourselves  
The past could be undone  
But we carry on our backs the burden  
Time always reveals  
In the lonely light of morning  
In the wound that would not heal  
It's the bitter taste of losing everything  
That I've held so dear."_

-Sarah McLachlan, "Fallen"

The desire to ask again if she was _sure_ it was a good idea for him to reveal himself was strong but he quashed it, forcing himself to bite the bullet. It was almost ironic, given how long and deeply he'd wondered what Joi really looked like.

Now he was worried about _her_ reaction _to him_, instead.

There were the three extremes, really: April's initial shock and dismay, believing that she was in a dream. Then there was Casey's way of coping—the first time he'd met Raph he'd merely assumed he was street punk and, to hear Master Splinter tell it, he'd taken one look at the rat, shrugged, and worked to get him to safety. The third option was the Karai and Shredder-centric one, in which they assumed they were freaks of nature that needed to be destroyed. Bishop sort-of fell in with the latter category, as well.

Either way, it was not exactly a pleasant picture.

So Donny was stuck wondering which way Joi was going to lean.

Sure, they'd becoming friends through their talks, but how would she feel knowing that it was a giant, mutated turtle which knew all her best-kept secrets? That had seen her at her worst and had even patched her up afterward?

The thought was daunting and made him hesitate, hand on the doorknob, despite his previous imaginings and eagerness.

Creeping forward at a ninja's pace, Donatello carefully entered the "hospital" section of the Lair. A bendable desk lamp was switched on, rather than the bright overhead lights—important for difficult surgeries—the curve of the fixture aimed at a bloodless figure on a cot. She was covered from neck to toe with a quilted blanket, one of his, actually, a green and purple monstrosity from their first Christmas with April. But it had acquired ten years of softness, and was both comfortable and warm to boot. Details which would, no doubt, help her feel more comfortable.

Shock had made her shiver like mad on the way back to the Lair, and thankfully that effect was neutralized by April's quick thinking.

Donny tiptoed forward, registering that her eyes were closed, and tried to find himself a seat that would put him a decent distance away while still at her own level as equals. As he did so he couldn't help making a few observations.

_She's going to be tall when standing_, was his first thought, _definitely taller than me._ He found this interesting, given how she tried to make her voice small and solemn. Her hair was a light brown when not matted with blood, he noted, almost a dark blonde at points, as though her hair couldn't quite decide which color it was meant to be.

The desire to look at her facial features was sternly checked at the door until, abruptly, he felt her eyes open and land on him just as he was about to fold himself into a ratty green camp chair.

His gaze shot up and connected with large, long-lashed orbs, and he was frozen mid-action. Arrested by the way his heart jerked in his chest, a completely emotional response from a typically logical being.

They were amber—no, _fawn_. Amber was too strong a word, a color dedicated to his brother, Raphael. But these…Joi's eyes were the color of warm honey in cream of wheat, of sherry-colored topaz. Of warmth and home and misty mornings across autumn fields with the sun just peeking over the horizon.

They were soft and anxious and wary all in one, and they were staring at him as though he was a monster that had walked out of her dreams.

Joy sucked in a breath and instinctively he stumbled back into his chair, hands held out in entreaty, "don't scream, please. It's just me, it's just…Donny."

At the sound of his voice her eyes became larger, if possible, and while she didn't pull back against the flattened pillow behind her, her long fingers_ were_ gripping his blanket rather tightly.

Taking a deep breath, Donny was reminded of a previous conversation with her and, deciding to risk it, he closed his eyes as though speaking through a telephone once again, not face to face, and braved a single sentence, "so, um. It looks like you've seen my clinic now. I hope that April had a better bedside manner than I do."

The joke, feeble at best, resulted in a blink of long eyelashes, spied just as he allowed himself a glimpse of her. But after the flicker they remained closed, as though she, too, was waiting for something.

Her head bobbled like she was repeating words in her head, and with a start Donatello realized that she was comparing his voice in person to the one over the phone.

Then Joi swallowed and said, "well, she wasn't…unfeeling."

He bit back a relieved laugh. It was a start—a definite start. Even if they still had a long way to go in this, their first physical interaction.

"And…and no one's going to kick you out in order to take care of someone 'more important' than you. Right now…there's no one more important, really," at the revealing statement he coughed, feeling his cheeks heat_. Thank heavens for green skin_, the thought absently, "we're, ah, kind of invested in making sure you heal okay."

Her gaze returned and then the young woman was watching him on the edge of her vision, as though she wasn't quite sure what she was seeing.

"Donny," she began, rather mutedly, "you're a turtle."

He smothered a laugh at the understatement of the century, "I, ah, well, I had noticed that. And you're rather tall—I'm not sure if I can be friends with someone whom is that much taller than me."

The remark, quipped in their usual fashion, made her start with surprise. And then her lips twitched upward on the one side.

She turned to face him fully.

"How…how long?"

"Were you out?" he finished for her.

Her expression said that that didn't matter, as though accustomed to blacking out. His stomach lurched at the thought, "no, how long…have you been…a turtle?"

Donatello thought about it for a second, poking his arm absently, "um, twenty-five years, give or take. So…always?"

"But you…you…" she wet slim lips, revealing tiny white teeth, "but you've always sounded so…"

The girl trailed off, and he filled the sentence in for her.

"Human? I know," he sighed, rubbing at the space between where his eyebrows might have been. He tended to get headaches there after having stared at a single screen for too long, "I get that a lot. Especially from scientists."

"_Scientists?_" she squeaked out.

"People who…who assume that I must be a simple, mindless animal based on my appearance," he murmured quietly. He paused, then allowed himself a self-deprecating grin, "at least you now know the _real_ reason why April would never want to be with me—I told you I was short and ugly. I just didn't tell you_ how_ ugly."

"You're not ugly," her response came out quickly, surprising them both. Beneath her personal spotlight he could see a faint blush coloring her cheeks and Joi ducked her head into the folds of his blanket almost defensively. A move that made his heart-rate speed up, for some reason. Especially as she continued to examine him, head to toe, as though mentally recalibrating her vision of him.

Shell only knew what she saw there.

Recognizing an opportunity for what it was, and remembering the claim that others apparently said that she was "horse-like," he endeavored to examine her facial features in turn.

They were rather long, he admitted clinically, but if they were to be considered equine then it was her nose which was to blame, given its length. The lips were slim and solemn, the chin coming to a delicate point. Her forehead was wide, intelligent, and her cheekbones were prominent enough to cut someone—it even appeared that way, what with the purple Band-Aid on her cheek.

Covered in skateboarding dinosaurs, April had originally bought them as a gag gift for Michelangelo. Against Joi's pallid skin it almost seemed in poor taste. But when it came to medical supplies they made do with what they had…

No, she reminded him of a deer more than a horse, or maybe a gazelle. Something graceful and swift, prone to fleeing away. Delicate. Breakable.

"And you don't look like a horse," he responded after his own perusal. Her answer was to duck down further.

Neither of them said anything for a moment or two, Joi fiddling with the fraying hem and Donny rubbing at his wrist. Finally she opened her mouth. Shut it. Opened it again and cleared her throat.

"I-I thought you were an EMT."

It was more statement than question, but he winced, "I do provide Emergency Medical care for a limited clientele. And I do work for RooTTech as IT tech support. Those weren't lies," he added as she tried to speak once more.

Closed it.

The woman bit the inside of her cheek, "how did you know where to f-find me?"

"I'm an inventor," he stated simply. Then when that wasn't enough he admitted, "I created a tracer a long time ago to find the origination of gang activity and merely applied it to your phone calls."

The young woman flinched, "so you knew…all along. You knew _everything_ just as I was f-finally feeling comfortable enough to, to-!"

"What? No!" he interrupted, hastening to explain, "I knew which building, but that was about it. I never…I never _snooped_. Until the last minute, I mean, and then I just…followed the sounds which matched what I had heard in your call."

"Oh," she whispered, falling silent.

Which meant that it was Donny's turn to question, "Joi…why didn't you tell me?"

Her large, doe-like eyes flickered upward. He tried to hide how her gaze made his breath catch, "would you have believed me? I…I've tried to tell other people but they haven't—they didn't _want_ to believe me. They're…they were too scared that the same thing would happen to them. To-to _their_ children."

"I would have believed you. I mean, I think that I would have," he amended, "I just…I really wish that you had told me, I…I would have at least_ tried_ to do something. To…to protect you. And keep you safe," he stated quietly, hands clasped together as he leaning back more fully into the camp chair he'd been half-perched on, expression mournful.

The brunette watched his movement with a startled gaze, her chest lifting and falling in short, quick breaths. He sighed and looked away, "then again, my circumstances are slightly different than most people's. We're used to protecting and defending victims of corruption, hate and…and abuse," she flinched, "plus I am, unfortunately, rather familiar with the criminal element of this city, so…yeah. There's nothing I would put past Human nature. Based on that, I'd like to believe that I would have taken your word at face value."

"Thank you," she choked out painfully, avoiding eye contact and gripping tired fabric in her fists.

Then something seemed to startle her, causing Joi to blink at him, confused, until it cleared, "wait, you said…you fight crime? Is this part of your…of the 'Neighborhood Watch' you're part of?"

She was quick, he gave her that. The turtle smiled a little sadly, "well, we're not_ official_ members. You could see where certain things about us might make that a problem. No, we're…we're basically masked vigilantes."

She frowned, "like…like Spiderman? Or the Avengers?"

Donatello resisted the urge to snort—_if only_, "nothing so conspicuous. We…tend to keep to the shadows."

Suddenly the wariness was back, "you don't happen to also fly, do you?"

He couldn't hold back his laugh. This seemed to surprise her, as though she couldn't quite correlate the sound and its origin, "no, I'm not a 'flying bat creature,'" he finally said, still with a smile on his face. Joi ducked her head as she recognized the phrasing as her own, from a previous conversation.

"If I was I don't think that we'd be living down here," the terrapin mused, waving a hand at their surroundings, full of aged brickwork and piping all along the ceiling.

"And where is 'here,' exactly?"

He scratched at the back of his neck, sheepish, "well, the sewers, mostly?" at her recoil he went on to assure her, "but this area is an abandoned train depot. It's safe, defensible. And clean, I promise."

Her eyebrows met together in a furrow, like a long, thin pencil, "you're sure?"

"Clean enough to eat off of—in the kitchen, anyway. Well, I'm not sure if I can vouch for Mikey's room. Or Raph's, actually. Although apparently Mike's got enough pizza boxes in there to make a small fort, from what I've seen."

The young woman leaned back slightly, into her pillow, "oh. Your brothers, I'd forgotten, I…um," her hand went to the back of her neck subconsciously and he frowned as she began rhythmically tugging at the hair there until a piece broke off. She began the process again a second time, "are they…are they like you, too?"

"They're turtles as well," he answered for her, with a heavy sigh, "my father is not, though."

"Oh?" she asked, but he could see the hope there.

He coughed awkwardly, "um, no. But," he laughed weakly, "how do you feel about rats?"

"_Rats?_"

The sound of the door opening cut off their conversation. Looking up in unison, they turned to the door where a redhead looked in, apologetic.

"Sorry, guys. Um, Donny, Leonardo would like to speak with you."

He blinked, "what, _now?_"

Her expression became heartily sympathetic, "yeah."

Well, he supposed that the shell was going to hit the fan sooner or later.

"Master Splinter?" he asked carefully, in the hope that there would be some reprieve from that part of the court. No such luck.

"He's in his room. He says that he would like to speak with you after Leo."

Donatello sighed and nodded, running a hand over his domed head, "right. Um, okay. Where's he at?"

"He's in your lab."

"In _my_…alright, then."

Donny turned back toward Joi, a movement which startled her. He ignored it, keeping his expression unassuming, "Joi, I kind of went about this all wrong but I just wanted to say that…you're welcome to stay down here as long as you'd like. I mean, it's no five-star hotel, but I've…_we've_ made certain that your father is arrested, at least temporarily. So it's safe," he dodged a look back up at his old friend and she smiled encouragingly, "April will probably want to talk to you about making that jail-time more permanent, and the steps involved. I know that the concept is daunting, especially right now, but…I would just like for you to think about it, if you get the chance. If anything, we would like to get you back on your feet and safe as soon as possible. So that you can start over. Without being in danger, I mean."

Excusing himself with a polite nod—Joi just continued glancing between the two of them and he remembered belatedly that he'd told her about his and April's shared backstory—the purple-banded warrior exited. April took his place almost immediately, her words blocked but tone, friendly and inquisitive, still echoing through the door. He hardly noted the simple camera in her hand, a detail that seemed inconsequential at the time.

Sitting on their beaten old couch in front of him, Raphael was scowling irritably.

"I tried ta tell 'im what we saw, Donny. Fearless didn't listen ta a word I said."

He swallowed painfully and nodded, "thanks for the effort anyway, Raph."

"Good luck."

~/~/~

**AN:** I drew a picture of how I imagined Joi a couple of weeks back, which I will post on Deviantart as soon as I can. But in the meantime…

If there was any actress that is a close approximation to my character it would be a young Kim Raver. :)

I was leaning toward Judy Greer, especially as she appears in, "What Women Want," and Amy Acker when it came to hair color and eyes, but Kim Raver (as Audrey in "24" but with darker hair) is almost a perfect match when it comes to the angles of her face. Just imagine her very, very young, and quite a bit anxious. :(

On that note, the eyes that appear in the 'book cover' are actually actress Eliza Bennett's. When first imagining this story, I was aiming for her mannerisms as portrayed in, "Inkheart."

**Joi's eyes:** "Fawn" is an actual color. :D colors. findthebest l/ 613/ Fawn (remove spaces) "Sherry Topaz" is a good descriptor, as well. Here's a good stone reference for it (even though the seller describes it as "pink" topaz): alanfriedmanjewelry. /2013/ 11/ pink-topaz-and-diamond -dome- ring. Html (remove spaces). If you just do a google search for the phrase "sherry topaz" then lots of examples will come up, as well. :)


	6. Ramifications

**Hotline**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one turtle's choice affects the entire team.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except for fond childhood memories of watching turtle cartoons on Saturday mornings.

**Quick Author Note:** Donatello's nickname will be written as "Donny" rather than "Donnie" in this, as determined by the subtitles of the live action films. I wasn't sure which spelling to go with, but that little detail became the deciding factor. :)

~/~/~

Chapter 6: Ramifications

"_No good deed goes unpunished  
No act of charity goes unresented  
No good deed goes unpunished  
That's my new creed  
My road of good intentions  
Led where such roads always lead  
No good deed  
Goes unpunished!_

One question haunts and hurts  
Too much, too much to mention:  
Was I really seeking good  
Or just seeking attention?  
Is that all good deeds are  
When looked at with an ice-cold eye?  
If that's all good deeds are  
Maybe that's the reason why

No good deed goes unpunished…

"

-Idina Menzel, "No Good Deed"

The door to his computer lab was cracked open and with a sigh he stepped in and shut it behind him—there was no point in dragging his feet, really.

His older brother was standing in front of a monitor—the one he'd left on in his rush to leave.

The evidence was incriminating.

"Raphael says that the father was abusing her. Did you know this before you decided to hie off to who-knows-where without a thought for the fact that you could have been killed?" Leonardo asked before Don could get a word of defense in.

"I knew that _something_ was wrong—."

"That wasn't what I asked," Leonardo bit off sharply, "_did. You. Know?_"

Donny clenched both hands on his belt, "…no. But my hypothesis wasn't wrong. And I took backup."

"As an _afterthought_, yes. And right after the sun went down, before the shadows were even cool. Donny, what were you _thinking?_ You could have been _seen_."

The normally calm turtle scowled as he took a step forward, "you want to know what I was thinking? I was thinking that my friend was being attacked _while I was on the phone_ with her. When I could actually_ do something_ to stop what was happening. I was thinking that this is what we do: save lives. Protect those we care about."

"And since when did you start caring about this girl, huh? You went behind my back—behind_ all of our backs_, in your search for someone to talk to, to ease your loneliness—!"

"Hey!" Donatello barked, "_she_ called _me_, okay? And you can't put the blame on me for just…for _talking_ to someone. I do that all day, remember? In case you forgot who it is that puts the food on the table."

Their unofficial leader finally turned around to face him, "but this is too much, Donatello."

He couldn't help himself—the younger brother rolled his eyes, "what are you gonna do? Take away my 'internet privileges'?"

Leo's hand slammed down on the edge of the nearest desk, making a pile of circuits bounce, "this is not a joke!"

"Then stop being so ridiculous!" he yelled back, "look, we saved a girl's life—how is this any different from what we normally do?"

"When you _brought her back_ to the Lair and _risked us all_. You could have dropped her off with the police—."

"She's not a criminal, Leo, she's a teenager—."

"The Foot are mostly teens."

"—and in most cases domestic abuse is not prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. It's her word against his, and she's clearly afraid that Roberts was going to do something drastic. She said that he'd found her phone calls and was going to kill her. Look, I couldn't leave that alone."

"It's because you couldn't leave well enough alone that she was in danger in the first place," the other mutant growled, hands fisted as though holding his double-katana.

"_Don't_ even go blaming me for his actions," Donny hissed, "and besides, just because we ignore a situation doesn't mean that it's going to disappear. He was going to be abusive whether or not I talked to her—that was just his excuse to take it further."

"Don, you don't get it. She's a minor—someone's bound to notice that she's missing."

"The only family she has we left to be picked up by the cops," he explained flatly, "and once I fabricate a temporary warrant he'll be kept locked up until we can _make sure_ that he won't be getting out again."

Leonardo sighed, tired, "Donny, she's jail bait. The Division of Child and Family Services are going to be searching for her."

Donatello made a sound of derision, "only for one more month. Then she's legally free of him. Besides, if any one is 'jail bait' in this situation, it's us, in case you've forgotten that detail."

He ignored his brother's sarcasm, "look, all I'm saying is that it's not wise to have brought someone down her who may not be emotionally mature enough to handle the responsibility of protecting our secret."

"Keno never told," Don retorted, "and she needed help, Leo. You didn't see what her_ father_ was about to do to her! If you'd been there, I can guarantee that you would have made the exact same choice."

"_Yes._ I would have. But then I would have left her in the care of April or Casey until they were able to work things out with Social Services. I wouldn't have brought her down to the _Lair_, risking our _family_."

The younger brother scoffed, "cold-blooded and cold-hearted much, Leonardo? Social Services couldn't have done much, not with her being almost eighteen—not in the long-run. Then she would have been in just as bad of a situation as she was before."

"Look, I'm done talking about this," their de facto leader stated abruptly, in that way he did when he knew that Donny was right but didn't want to admit it, "you can keep her until she heals—that's fine."

"She's not a pet, Leo. She's a person, and she's hurting. She needs our help—."

"But she leaves as soon as she's able to," Leonardo continued, as though he hadn't heard him. Then he turned and left, door slamming in his wake.

~/~/~

His altercation with his brother left rage and adrenaline pumping through his veins. Donny felt like punching something—someone. It was as though he'd become Raphael, a completely foreign feeling, with the problem being that in his desire to break something he was surrounded by things were extremely _breakable. _Maybe that was why Leo had decided to appear in his domain, where he kept the things he cared about the most?

The worst part of it all was that he could hear Leo's words in his head, practical and cutting.

On one hand, he was completely correct. Having Joi down here was a grade-"A", Bad Idea, with all kinds of connotations connected to it. Sure, in the past they'd had allies of all kinds, some human and some not. But while most were able to protect their family's secret, it was kind of hit or miss.

But on the other, having met and befriended people like April and Casey had literally changed their lives; made it better, improved their standard of living. It wouldn't be bad to have more connections topside, and it was in their nature to care for the sick and the wounded.

But that wasn't always the case, regrettably.

_Karai._ The one human that Leonardo had trusted. Only to be betrayed, several times.

Joi must seem like a sore spot after that, but there was really no point in comparing her to the kunoichi. They were completely different, and Oroku Karai had been intent on deception from the very beginning. Joi, in contrast, was a victim; an innocent. But convincing Leonardo of that was going to be a tough sell.

He sighed, forcing the lingering irritation from his form. It left him feeling lethargic and exhausted. His limbs ached from being clenched tightly, and he could already feel a headache start to form between his eyes.

_How does Raphael deal with feeling this way, day in and day out?_ He wondered. But the thought was piggybacked by the realization that Master Splinter wanted to speak with him as well.

It was enough to make him groan, hand covering his face and emotions flat-lining at the thought. He briefly considered hiding his laboratory, sitting down in his computer chair and pretending to have fallen asleep. But he wasn't fifteen any more, and that could only work so many times.

No, as an adult he had to face the music.

Gulping in air, and forcing some strength into his limbs, Donatello headed for his father's room as though heading for death row. On the couch Raph had been joined by Mikey, who seemed conflicted, Klunk on his lap. The television was on, but muted, and neither one of them was paying it any mind. Both stopped talking, however, when Donny entered the room.

Raphael's expression was similar to the one he'd worn while wishing him good luck previously.

Donatello forced himself to face forward.

Master Splinter's room existed in one of the train station's many alcoves. Separate from the boys' rooms, and far from where they sparred, the area was calm and soothing compared to the rest of the Lair. Still, that didn't keep his nerves from bunching up and thoughts from running a mile a minute.

This time his father's door was ajar, as though welcoming him in.

The turtle sighed and knocked.

"Enter."

He slowly slid the door the rest of the way open, bowing slightly before the tatami mats strewn along the floor until Master Splinter acknowledged him. Then, in humility, he folded himself up into seiza position and waited, head bowed.

The elderly rat hummed the tune of an old Fukuyama Masaharu pop song to himself before assembling several items together and shuffling over with them. Then there was the sound of water pouring.

"So, my son," Splinter began softly as he prepared a pot of tea for himself on a camp stove they'd recovered from the dump, "who is this young woman you have brought into our care?"

Next to Leo's tirade, his father's words left him feeling guilty and self-conscious. All of his brother's censure—spoken in harsh practicality and anxious worry for their family—came to mind without the wizened rat having said anything. For the first time since he'd entered the Lair with the long-limbed, emaciated girl in his arms, Donatello felt guilty.

He swallowed, "her name is Joi Roberts, Master Splinter. Her father was abusing her, although I'm uncertain as to the full extent."

He wouldn't know until she told them, and if April was correct then that wouldn't be any time soon.

"She called me accidentally, thinking that RooTTech was a suicide hotline and I befriended her in an effort to help her."

"Ah, a noble effort, Donatello. But, to roughly quote Leonardo…" he continued, handing him a small chipped cup with pink bunnies on it—the only 'traditional Japanese-style cup' they'd been able to find. The turtle blinked in surprise, but accepted the beverage; the peace offering.

The ninja master crouched forward to look his pupil in the eye, "…'what are you going to do with her?'"

The question was a blow to Donny's stomach, as physical as a punch. Splinter recognized the effect his words had on his son and scooted back, nodding slightly.

"It is all _well_ to do good, Donatello, but it is _wise_ to realize that every action, even those to help others, has a consequence."

His father examined him with a gentle fondness that just made him want to sink lower into the ground, "I feel that in this instance you are only seeing the opportunities found in knowing this Miss Roberts while your brother only sees the fears. But what you both fail to see is that she is not a new puzzle to solve, or a toy to fix, or even the danger Leonardo spies, waiting to trap us all. Miss Roberts is her own being, innocent and unconnected to our lives down here."

Dim eyes, growing dimmer with age, watched him gently before he hummed, "Tomorrow you will speak with her and ask what it is that _she_ wishes for. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master Splinter," Donatello sighed heavily.

"And until she is well, if she is to remain here, you are not to leave her side, to leave the Lair, unless she does. No 'missions.'"

He was half-lifted from his crouch in shock, dismay making him gape in surprise and hurt, "but—!"

"_This _is the consequence, my son, of your choice. You chose well, but in doing so you must recognize the care that she requires," the rodent murmured, finally pouring a cup of tea for himself, "it will do her well to know that you are nearby; that your protection enfolds her. And until then you shall learn of the responsibility which comes with caring for another. The same responsibility I learned upon finding four small turtles all alone in the sewers…"

He slumped slightly, "yes, Master Splinter…"

~/~/~

_Later…_

"What have you found so far?" she asked quietly, stepping out of the staff meeting and into the hallway. Despite leaving she could hear Dan through the door, extolling the virtues of a musical production that they just couldn't afford right now.

Still, she somehow knew that they would make it work—even if it involved paying for costumes out of her own pocket. It was a worthwhile sacrifice for an astronomically positive end result.

With a sigh the woman's mind switched focus, allowing the thoughts fall back as something far more important came to grip her.

_Joi Roberts._ She was missing. Had been for several days now, with no notes and no warnings. At least when there were doctors' slips she had something to work on; some idea that at least _one_ human being had interacted with her. This silence was disturbing and made her worry for the young girl.

Across from her the jacket-clad detective sighed, running a hand through her rich, blue-black hair, "well, we've got Roberts in custody already."

The shorter woman blinked in surprise, "really? I would have thought that he'd be on the run after what he did."

"Well, we're not entirely sure what exactly he _did_ do. All the neighbors heard was yelling—his and hers. More than one of them called us about a domestic violence and disturbance situation, and when our boys came through the door they found him trussed up like a Christmas tree," anxious, she pursed red lips, hands on hips.

If she hadn't known any better she would have guessed that the jean-clad cop was a college student, or maybe a twenty-something relative of one of her pupils. But years of interacting with the woman had helped her see past the guise of nonchalance—beneath her casual exterior was a hardened veteran on the beat, older than she appeared and as street savvy as any of the punks she'd escorted to detention. If there was anyone who could find Joi, it would be her.

"Any idea who might have done it?"

"No clue; it's as though they disappeared into thin air, and took Joi with them," she frowned fiercely at that, as though it bothered her more than any other detail they'd run into, "as it stands, we have plenty to hold him with until she's found, at the very least. He's got a series of outstanding parking tickets almost a mile long."

The educator blinked at that. Then blinked some more.

Dark eyes flickered to hers, the cop catching on immediately that something was wrong, "what is it?"

"Nothing really important, but…that just seems strange."

"How so?"

She bit her lip, "the Roberts family sold their car to pay for Joiyce's medical expenses several years ago. Anthony hasn't driven anything larger than maybe a bicycle since then, and even that I doubt."

Both women stared at one another for several minutes as they processed that information. Then the detective nodded decisively, a kind of deep concentration flickering beneath her hooded eyes.

"I'll keep you posted if there are any new developments."

"Thank you, Detective Maza. I appreciate all your hard work."

~/~/~

AN: The sudden arrival of mysterious new people. Ooooooooh. *waves hands in a ridiculous fashion* They'll play a part soon enough. :) At least, well, one of them will. The other one is a cameo appearance. Did you catch it? ;)

Anyway, writing this chapter was top-to-bottom fun as can be. Most people don't know it but I tend to take notes on small little notepads, so that I can bring them with me when I'm doing activities. And this way I always have the means to write pretty much anywhere. ^^ But the whole dialogue with Donny and Leo was written in one go, on about five or six pieces of small notepaper, front to back. The same went with his conversation with Splinter (written on a separate occasion, of course). I couldn't help it, the words flowed out as just as hotly as they came to the characters' mouths.

And wasn't it entertaining, having the two of them argue? It's usually Leonardo and Raphael, so having it be one of the more laid-back turtles involved (although I'm not sure if Donatello would appreciate that term…?) was kind of an adventure. ^^

The line, "what are you gonna do, take away my internet privileges?" made me laugh because it's a direct callback to my childhood, in which we all took turns on the computer (my brothers and sister playing Star Craft and myself typing up my first original story) and when we got in trouble we were "grounded from the internet." *laughs*

Seiza position is a common way of sitting in Japan, also used in martial arts. You are bent in a kneeling positon, feet/ankles either folded beneath your rear or to the sides of your hips. I can sit in seiza for a decent amount of time, but after a while my ankles pop out of joint. :S Ouch.

Bowing before the mat is a way to respect your instructor/dojo. It is common in Japanese Martial Arts and also when entering people's homes. R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

(On that note, I took Aikido for a little while. Curse you, forward-facing tumble! *shakes fist*)

The cup with pink bunnies is mine—my friend brought it back for me from Japan, as I collect "mugs" and similar objects from various locations. Her response, "sorry about the bunnies! This was the only one I could find. :S" I actually like the bunnies, so… *shrugs*

Masaharu Fukuyama is a pop singer, actor, and song-writer! :D He's really well known, especially for having an amazingly deep voice (I really liked him in high school). He has had a long career, so I imagine that Hamato Yoshi might have listened to the music. Whether Yoshi is Splinter's master of Splinter himself is up to your discretion…


	7. Safe and Free

**Hotline**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one turtle's choice affects the entire team.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except for fond childhood memories of watching turtle cartoons on Saturday mornings.

**Quick Author Note:** Donatello's nickname will be written as "Donny" rather than "Donnie" in this, as determined by the subtitles of the live action films. I wasn't sure which spelling to go with, but that little detail became the deciding factor. :)

~/~/~

Chapter 7: Safe and Free

"_Closed off from love  
I didn't need the pain  
Once or twice was enough  
And it was all in vain  
Time starts to pass  
Before you know it you're frozen_

But something happened  
For the very first time with you  
My heart melts into the ground  
Found something true  
And everyone's looking round  
Thinking I'm going crazy"

-Leona Lewis, "Bleeding Love"

He scratched at his face and with it came a nice dollop of saliva—the side effect of having fallen asleep sitting at his computer desk again, the usual slump aided by gravity in sending him leaning forward against the much-abused plastic and metal.

Donatello groaned. He hoped that he hadn't short-circuited anything this time.

Stretching carefully and pushing at the space halfway down his carapace until his back managed to crack—a true feat for any of the terrapins given the way that they were shaped—he took stock of the day and tried to make sense of what led him to crash in his lab. There were no unfinished projects sitting on the tables and no blueprints drawn up, he acknowledged with bleary eyes, so what…?

The nearest computer screen blinked at him with a single photo and list of data. It was from middle school database, if the braces were anything to go by, and the girl in the image…

_Joi Roberts._

Some light in his brain flicked on. _Yes,_ it said to him, this image is correct. He wasn't sure how he knew it, but confirmation called out to him as though through bad radio static…

Crap. It was too early for this.

Coffee. He needed coffee.

Stumbling to the kitchen—and completely disregarding Mikey at the stove, who was humming some cartoon theme song to himself and bobbing around merrily—Donatello filled a large Batman mug-worth of the thick, dark liquid. Only after he'd inhaled two thirds of the contents did he pause to process the day before.

Honestly, it was like powering up a supercomputer belonging to NASA. But with it came several epiphanies and remembered conversations. He straightened in his seat, finally registering the terrible orange-Formica table in front of him in blooming Technicolor, among other visual details…

Joi. They'd saved her.

Brought her home. Stitched her up.

Leo'd been angry, Splinter disapproving…_ish. _He wasn't to participate in any missions…or junk runs, for that matter. Not without Joi going with him.

And April…

~/~/~

"_She finally nodded off," the woman explained shortly, arms crossed after having closed the door to the infirmary. One hand held a camera in her grip._

_His own shoulders dropping and tired down to the soles of his feet, he almost didn't notice it._

_Almost._

_But then again, he always was a sucker for the details._

"_What's that for?"_

_She blinked, then glanced at her hand, "oh. Documentation. If we want any case against Roberts then we have to have something to go by. Of course, I had to get her permission first."_

_He dragged a kitchen chair over, collapsing into it, "and did she give it?"_

"_Yes, but it took a lot of convincing. Her father really did a number on her, let me tell you. Even knowing what he did, she defended him. I read somewhere that victims of abuse are loyal, even when those they are loyal to are undeserving. It's a self-defense mechanism—she's still worried that he's going to punish her for saying anything," April explained, half to herself. Her eyes looked heavy and bruised, as though she hadn't been sleeping well, and with anyone else he might have said that the experience had aged them. As it was her shoulders were hunched in almost defensively, deeper thoughts internalized._

"_I think you did a news story on victims of abuse about two years after we met you," Donatello filled in for her quietly. Just like that her gaze focused on him yet again, moving from the past to the present._

_She blinked at him and smiled, "you're right. You know, it's surprising that you'd remember something like that."_

"_Must've stuck me is all," he responded, hiding behind the white lie._

_The truth being that he remembered _all _of her news reports, big and small—it was hard not to. All part and parcel of the double-edged sword which was his brain. And his heart._

_He'd always had a difficult time letting go._

"_If what I remember is correct, we're going to have to show her that she can trust us and that she's protected. We're also going to have to deal with personality quirks," she said, interrupting his thought process as she spoke out loud._

_Donatello blinked in surprise, then frowned, "sure, but I don't want her treated like she's some sort of foreign specimen, and that the only reason we're helping her is because she's sick."_

_The reporter gave him an odd look, "of course not, Don. I'm just saying that there are certain things are going to set her off and we're going to have to take them as they come. Things like fear of abandonment and of large groups of people. Sometimes it'll appear when we least expect it, and you might not be able to get her to talk to you like she did before."_

_He folded his arms defensively, already strung nerves pulled even tighter in irritation, "well, why wouldn't she?"_

"_Hold on there, Donny, I am not the enemy. I'm merely saying…" the older woman paused, took a deep breath, and tried again, "look. Usually when you save someone, hey, look, Ta-da! They're saved. But it's not going to be that way with Joi. She was abused, and has been for what was probably at least a couple of years. It sounds like she was fine talking to you when you didn't know about it, but if she's had any bad experiences in the past in which people didn't believe her then it's likely that she's going to think that you're out to judge her, too."_

_He drew back slightly, remembering their last conversation with sudden and stark clarity._

"_So she's not going to say much. She may even withdraw into her shell, proverbially speaking," April added with some irony, "at least until she feels that it's emotionally safe to come out. Especially if she's dealing with Post-Traumatic Stress. Do you understand?"_

_He sighed roughly, running a hand over the back of his neck—it was knotted with the temper he'd developed, "yeah, I get it. Sorry, April, I'm just a little…" he made a back and forth motion, like a teeter-totter, with his hand._

"_It's understandable. After a night like tonight we're all a little…" she echoed the motion._

_There was a second's pause as they both processed the conversation before she went on, to his surprise._

"_On that note, I think that it might be best if we remove all the mirrors in the lair," April murmured, rubbing the back of her head._

_Donatello blinked, "what, why?"_

_She sighed and propped her hip against the ratty couch, looking for the best way to say it, "Donny, Joi…she's got a lot of problems. But before we can do anything for her emotional wellbeing, I have a feeling that we're going to have to focus on her physical health. She's anorexic—she might be thin naturally, but this is extreme. And one aspect of Anorexia is having an inaccurate body image. If we remove all the mirrors—not that there are many down here—then she's less likely—."_

"_To realize that her weight and health are changing, especially if we start focusing on changing her diet to one that's healthier," he finished the thought for her, nodding, "that makes sense. I'll remove them before she gets a chance to realize that they were even there."_

"_It's not as if anyone but me used them anyway," she mentioned slightly under her breath._

_He smirked, "I dunno. I'm pretty sure that Casey used them a time or two."_

_The redhead rolled her eyes, "flexing one's muscles in front of a mirror does not count as 'using them.' Only as an excuse to stall for time in an experiment to see how long it takes before pissing Raph off so that he breaks down the door."_

"_So that's what happened," he snorted, "now I know who to charge for those new door hinges."_

"…_didn't you scrounge those from the dump?"_

_His shrug was eloquent, "Casey doesn't have to know that."_

~/~/~

So that conversation had gone well—mostly. Which left him with the unpleasant task of talking to Joi about what she wished to do, as well as informing his brothers of his future absence on the 'force.'

Tired even at the thought of those tasks, he opted to go for the easier of the two. Or at least, the less volatile of the two options. He could face his brothers later on in the day, followed by enough time for them to "cool down." Leonardo would be smug without being "smug"—kind of a lofty, silent, "I told you so" expression that went without saying; it was just the way he was when Master Splinter reaffirmed some decision that he'd made. As for Raphael, he'd probably try to pick a fight with a resisting Leo, then would head out to blow of some steam with Casey—at least in this case Donny knew that his brother would be on his side, for once.

It had something to do with the emotion in Raph's eyes as they initially landed on Joi, the girl cowering in the corner with pained hands blocking their view of her. As though she was a leper and didn't want to be looked at.

Mikey would probably rally around Joi and be disappointed that he, Donatello, wasn't going to be there as they made their rounds. More often than not they ended up pairing off, stuck as spectators to the ongoing Leo-Raph battle. With him gone they'd be a man down and Michelangelo would likely be stuck as the odd turtle out. He couldn't help but wonder how the dynamic was going to change while he was stuck at home.

Well, at least this way he didn't have to deal with the drama and petty immaturity, was the thought which was came before he downed the dregs of his drink and rinsed out his mug in preparation for later cleaning. Tired at the thought of his next task, Donny trudged toward the door.

Mikey blinked halfway through his theme song, cutting off the words, _"I will eat everything without likes or dislikes, TEE—."_

"Yo, where're you off to, Brah? Eggs are almost done."

Donny's shoulders dipped minutely, "I…have to go talk to Joi about something. Sensei's orders."

His brother's response was surprising, the normally easygoing turtle stiffening and falling silent. Then Mike merely nodded, dropping his eyes and scraping at the pan—theme song entirely forgotten, "'kay, cool Bro. See you after."

Donatello hesitated with one hand on the doorknob, torn between what he needed to do and Michelangelo's obvious discomfiture. The desire to leave the room, getting a difficult task done and over with, was met with his natural inclination to care for the medical and emotional needs of his brothers—especially as sometimes their life literally depended on it. And what he'd just seen, top to bottom, was an indication that the other turtle was anything but okay.

He sighed, turning back to place a three-fingered hand on the cook's shoulder.

"Okay, Mikey. What's wrong?"

"Huh?" the nunchaku-wielding warrior looked up only absently, "oh, it's…it's nuthin.'"

"C'mon, Mike. Don't give me that—I _know_ you."

For just a moment Donny could tell that he was actually thinking about saying something, eye ridges uncharacteristically bunched together and mouth opened to speak. Until the sound of Raphael and Leonardo at odds in the hallway made him stiffen. Then he shrugged lightly, "don't worry about it, dude. You've got more important things to worry about."

Donatello frowned, "you're sure?"

His younger brother put up a brave face, smiling tightly in a ghost of his usual boisterousness, "yeah, 'm good. You should go and take care of your princess before she ends up in another castle or something."

Don hesitated a moment at Mikey's words, looking back, "you…you do know that she's not my girlfriend or anything, right? We're just friends."

The orange-banded turtle blinked. Then grinned, "hey, I wasn't even thinking that, bro—you were the one who said it. You got something to share with the class?"

Donatello's expression was withering. Still, Michelangelo continued.

"What was that from the other day about Freud-man's slip?"

"Your eggs are burning," he declared flatly. Then shut the door behind him. Firmly.

~/~/~

Entering the infirmary felt almost like tiptoeing through the frontlines, his nerves on end and eyes alert for bombs going off. Normally lit by either an open door or one of the many lamps he had strewn about the place, the darkness felt almost like an alternate universe as he entered the familiar area. Odd-shaped objects became hulking shadows and edges here and there were thrown in relief by the light he was letting in.

Because he wasn't stressed enough already.

Swallowing harshly, Donatello tried to clear his throat as he reminded himself that this was just Joi, his friend. They'd talked for hours on end, so how was speaking to her now any different?

_Because you finally know what she's been hiding from you,_ came the dry reply of his internal monologue.

Heaving in a chest full of oxygen, he tiptoed forward toward the bundle on the cot.

"Um…Joi? Can I talk to you?"

Silence was his reply.

"Joi? Are you…are you awake?"

Still nothing. Heart in his throat, Donatello switched on the lamp, spilling light on to her bed. Where a carefully folded purple and green blanket sat, its edges precise. She'd even placed her pillow on top of it, like a hospital ward that had been newly cleaned after the death of its patient.

He blinked at the sight, brain not computing. Then it was processing at a mile a minute, dashing from the room.

_Leonardo. He better not have done what I think he did…_

The thought was frantic and waspish all in one. He opened the training room door with more force than was necessary, startling Leo out of his meditation.

"Where's Joi?" Donatello demanded.

His brother blinked his eyes open. Then frowned.

"I think we've covered the fact that she's not _my_ responsibility. Although I wouldn't be surprised if she was hiding."

Donny scowled. Well, at least he knew that Leo hadn't played a part in kicking her out, which meant that she must be somewhere in the Lair…

Closing his eyes again as though his presence didn't matter, his older brother continued loftily, "if you're that worried about her why don't you just check the perimeter? That's what the cameras are there for, _aren't_ they?"

The subtle dig on one of Donny's foremost projects—one that took time and constant upkeep—made him want to knock some sense into the other turtle. But he resisted, mostly in the knowledge that 1. Leonardo was just looking for an opportunity to give him the beat down and 2. 'Fearless,' as Raphael so rudely called him, could unfortunately wipe the floor with him.

He left and made his way to his lab. The light was still on, the way he'd left it lit made it a good thing that the electric bill was in his name now rather than April's, never mind the fact that it came by way of a "Ghost" address. But the computer wasn't on the page he remembered it being—instead there was an image of Joi from a middle-school Poetry Jam, the tiny stick-thin girl's eyes just barely showing above the shoulder of a much brawnier girl.

He moved forward to investigate, frowning until the chair jerked abruptly. Then turned slightly.

Donny gulped, "J-Joi? What are you doing—?!"

'—_touching my computer?'_ was the second, instinctive part of the question. _No one_ touched his computer, with the exclusion of April and sometimes Leo.

Emotion overrode practicality on the way out, however, his heart informing his brain that there were more important things to worry about. Like the fact that she'd caught him reading up on her. Admittedly it was after the fact, but…

_Well, so much for respecting her privacy_, Chivalry remarked dryly. He winced.

She rose and the movement was stiff, aided by the fact that her leg was encased in plaster—well, a Cortex cast created by 3-D printer, allowing for breathability while also cutting out the need for outside medical assistance…anyway. The fact that the screens backlit her skeletal form, revealing jutting ribs and sharp shoulder blades made him feel even worse.

"You said that you'd never looked me up before."

Her remark, emotionless, cut to the quick.

"Well, I hadn't," he answered softly, the urge to pull her away from his computers rising, "not until last night, anyway…"

She turned to look at him thoughtfully, profile sharp and angular, "that's an awful lot of info for just one night."

"I…didn't go to bed," he admitted in a mutter. Then crossed his arms and huffed, "look, can you just turn around so I can…I can talk to you? It's important."

"You can talk to my back," she said flatly, "it's the same thing as going behind it."

Donatello gaped, hurt, and in his silence Joi finally faced him. He could see the remorse being born as she registered his expression. Almost defensively she curled in on herself, folding her long limbs into his turtle-ergonomic computer chair. All except the one leg, which stuck out like an orange spider-web (plastic material courtesy of Michelangelo's last major break). The other was bent so that her arms could lock around it.

_How did she get all the way over her in that, anyway?_

"I'm…I'm so-sorry," Joi finally whispered, head ducked down so that all he could see from behind her arms was large, light eyes, "I just…I mean, we talked yesterday, but I woke up this morning and I…" she pulled in a hiccupping breath, "I didn't know where I was and then it _justallc-cameback_. And, and…I didn't know what to do! To think, or _feel_. And, I mean I got saved by giant human-like _turtles_. And my best friend is one, so…so I'm just trying to-to _adjust_, you know?"

His entire form collapsed in on itself with his sigh, "Joi, I understand that it's a lot to take in—."

"No, you _don't_ u-understand, Donny! You don't understand what it's l-like staying at school for as long as you can so that you don't have to go h-home! And-and having dinner ready before you do _anything_ or Da—or _he'll_ beat you. Or being afraid to s-sleep because he'll come into your room," she cut herself off, "Don, you _don't understand_ what it's like," tears had started dripping down her face unchecked, and he realized for the first time that the shirt they'd brought her in wearing had been replaced with one of April's old things. It was soft from wear and comfortable on the redhead—on Joi it practically drowned her, starting to slip off of the one shoulder. But the rich blue added some color to the otherwise pallid, waifish young woman.

Donny sighed, "you're right, Joi, I don't have any experiences remotely similar to that, but…"

_What could he say?_

The young woman looked up at him through pained doe's eyes, "he was my _dad_, Donny? How could…why did he do that to me? Dad's are supposed to love you a-and take care of you!"

The desire to offer physical comfort—the kind of comfort he might have provided for one of his brothers, although who knew what that might have translated into with her—made him unconsciously moved forward a step. But she flinched back into her chair, instinctive fear showing in the whites of her eyes.

The turtle's outstretched hand was dropped. _No._ The situation wouldn't be solved by a clap on the shoulder or even a hug. Joi wasn't Mikey, she wasn't even April or Master Splinter. It went much deeper than that.

Rubbing the back of his neck and thinking of a way to respond, Don moved toward the beanbag chair he kept in the corner for nights when he couldn't quite stumble to bed—it was too bad that he hadn't made it even that far last night.

Letting himself down with a groan, the techie thought that at least this way he wasn't standing and thus less of a threat to her. From there perhaps the conversation could go down more positive venues.

And across from him, gaze as alert as prey facing off with a predator, Joi _did_ seem to relax. Somewhat. Which was always…good.

Donatello took that as his cue to start, "Joi. I don't have an answer for what he did. And I don't know why he did it, either. I just know…that not all men are like that. Meaning…" he sighed tiredly, "_most_ men aren't like that. 98% give or take. And especially not myself, my brothers…or my father."

He tried to say the word gently, but even son she winced. Don's shoulders dropped further—April was right, this was going to be an uphill battle.

The turtle went on, running three large fingers over his face, "look, that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

Her scrutiny, currently aimed at the cement floor, rose up to him, unblinking. The vigilante took that as a sign of her attention.

"Master Splinter—my father—he…"_boy, how to summarize_, he wondered, " he believes in agency—that every being has the right to choose for themselves. And…and I know that we brought you down here. To _protect_ you, I mean, but," he gulped in a breath, "to make sure that you don't feel trapped—and that it's by your own will and choice. He asked me…to ask you…if you wanted to stay?"

Her shock was palpable, jaw dropping and arced back becoming rod-straight. It was anything but what she'd expected from him and Donatello could almost see the mental reevaluation going on within her mind.

"I mean, we saved you, yes, but that still means that you are under no obligation to stick around," he continued swiftly, "we do ask that you keep kind of on the…on the down-low about everything, I mean. And we're friends—I'm going to assume that we're friends, based on…what you said," he muttered, "but you're right—essentially I'm a giant turtle," his laugh was awkward, self-deprecating. He clasped his odd-shaped digits tightly together and tried to forget in this instance just how much they didn't fit in the world they lived in, but it didn't work.

"I know how weird this is, trust me. I've heard enough screams to understand. And with your injury healing, it wouldn't surprise me at all if you wanted to recuperate anywhere other than a sewer. So what I'm trying to say is that…if you have anywhere else you can go, then we'll take you there. And…and you're not our prisoner or anything."

Donny hesitated a moment, forcing the sincerity and empathy he was feeling into his expression, "additionally, I'm _sorry_ for what you've gone through. I'm sorry that I wasn't able to help you sooner. But I'm not like…like Mr. Roberts. I'm not that guy. And none of us here would force you to do anything you wouldn't wish to do. Which is why…why," he frowned, licking his lips to wet them, and forced the words, "if you want to break off contact—you know, never see my ugly face again—I won't stop you. Okay?"

During his impromptu speech—definitely not his best work—Joi went through varying stages of posture and emotional expression, some as bright and open as a camera flash while other were more subtle. Finally the young woman had settled for guarded neutrality, a kind of thoughtfulness removing the stiffness from her limbs.

Finally, in the vacuum of stillness left in the wake of his discourse, Joi murmured, "Donny, I told you not to call yourself ugly. Stop saying that."

The terrapin blinked.

"And," she rested her cheek against her folded arms, long, swan-like neck an almost perfect curve, "I mean…"

The human girl straightened, nibbling her lower lip, "there's no one. I mean, if there was…but there's not. I…"

She curled up tighter, voice tiny and self-conscious, "Dad—Mr. Roberts wouldn't let me spend time with anyone else. So there isn't really anybody to, you know, turn to."

Ignoring his leaping heart-rate—completely inappropriate given what additional information she'd just revealed—Donatello forced himself to remain casual, despite the hope nipping at his limbs, "so, there's no teachers you can talk to? I remember a Miss Dobson, and you mentioned your Principal once…?"

"They don't have time for me—I don't want to be a bother," Joi whispered, "there are other kids that need their help more than I do."

_Oh, he very much doubted that._

Her regard was aimed back at him, "so you're my only choice."

The turtle held his breath, feeling alternately happy and terrible that he was rejoicing in her lack of options. But he couldn't help the way his pulse was picking up in anticipation, fingers and toes nearly wiggling with their desire to act. It was the same way he felt when about to start a new project or fix something which had been broken—

Splinter's voice rose, unbidden, into his mind.

"…_she is not a new puzzle to solve, or a toy to fix…"_

"I'll…I would like to stay."

Ignoring the guilt which came with it, his whole form lit up like New Years Eve at Times Square, "brilliant! I mean…that's great. I'll just, we'll just. Ah. Um. I'll go get a room ready for you and inform my father. And brothers."

He nodded and left the room, trying to ignore the look of trepidation on her face.

~/~/~

AN: The theme song Mikey is humming in the kitchen is the modified one from TV movie "Teen Titans: Trouble in Tokyo" originally by Puffy AmiYumi (but modified for the purposes of bad Karaoke). Because I say so. And because Beast Boy and Mikey would probably be bros—just sayin'. (Look up, "Beast Boy sings translated Karaoke," on youtube.)

If you think this chapter was unnecessary let me clue you in on something: Joi was in shock in Chapter 5. Ta-da! Now she's had time to process things and is freaking out some. :) Plus their conversation got cut off by Leo previously… But a lot of important things were said this time around, which will lead to a foundation of trust for future interactions. :D

**Important Author Note for future chapters:**

**Number One:** Most of the side-effects of abuse last for years—but I don't have that long to work with. Especially in a situation where Donny isn't allowed to leave the Lair.

**Number Two:** Also, I have a bit of a confession to make. When I started this it was in the expectation that this would remain a one-shot or maybe a two-shot and that no one would actually take any interest in it. Because I'm going to be leaving for a fulltime religious proselyting mission as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints on the 20th of August (to Japan, yay!).

But that means that I have very, very little time in which to write this story.

So this might not got finished. :S

**To avoid that fate**, I'm going to go ahead and do what I've planned on doing from the very start.

Instead of long, linear chapters, each one is going to have smaller scenes involving multiple characters. This way at least the readers get a general idea of what is happening to each set.

**To My Guest Reviewers:**

**Guest:** Thank you for quoting the good ol' Cap! :D He's my favorite of the bunch, and for your awesomeness I'll try and fit in some more references in the future. ;-)

**The Potato One:** 1. Your username is awesome. 2. _Thank you! _3. And you live in Utah ("happy valley")? I do, too! :D Only I'm in SLC, by way of Logan. 3 4. I'm glad that you enjoyed Donny's adorableness—I definitely enjoy writing it. :3 As for your guess on the references, you're right on the money! :D

In my personal opinion nearly every comic book or TV show reference set in New York overlaps one another. :D Take that comment as you will. :3 But if we happen to run into a crime novelist by the name of "Richard" then you'll know why. ;)

**Guest:** Glad that you caught on—Detective Maza's a great character. :D And at least it's not a bad theme song, right? ^^ As for reasons why I included her, see the note above!


	8. Curiosity Over Fear

**Hotline**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one turtle's choice affects the entire team.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except for fond childhood memories of watching turtle cartoons on Saturday mornings.

**Quick Author Note:** Donatello's nickname will be written as "Donny" rather than "Donnie" in this, as determined by the subtitles of the live action films. I wasn't sure which spelling to go with, but that little detail became the deciding factor. :)

~/~/~

Chapter 8: Curiosity Over Fear

"_There was a time when I would have believed them  
If they told me you could not come true  
Just love's illusion  
But then you found me and everything changed  
And I believe in something again_

…

We are not perfect  
We'll learn from our mistakes  
And as long as it takes  
I will prove my love to you

I am not scared of the elements  
I am under-prepared, but I am willing  
And even better  
I get to be the other half of you"

- Sara Bareilles, "I Choose You"

In many ways he felt like he'd lost a friend when they saved Joi.

That wasn't to say that he regretted his decision to act—not at all! It's just that things were…different now. Just as April had warned him. They no longer had the anonymity of phone calls, and what was more there were now additional complications.

For one was the living accommodations.

April had volunteered her "guest room" for Joi's use, but so far the young woman had yet to even check it out, much less explore the Lair. She'd moved herself permanently from the hospital "wing" to Donny's lab when they hadn't been looking, only leaving long enough to dress in the clothing the former reporter supplied within the bathroom before returning to the computer room—she even tended to eat in there, rather than with the family. Which, in part, he could understand. It was one of the few times they all sat down together and it could be…well, intimidating.

He still had to "go to work," though, so to speak, thus the first time she'd appeared (outside of their "confrontation") it had been after he'd taken a break to stretch and grab a snack. When he came back it was find the slim brunette curled in a ball on the large, patched beanbag chair.

She'd somehow managed to fold her long legs beneath her, one of them sticking out oddly, her head tucked down toward her chest like a swan in sleep.

It was…an interesting change. She didn't seem to want him out of her sight, but simultaneously it was like she couldn't quite get up the courage to talk to him. Joi was just…lost in thought. Like she'd climbed on board the internal-information superhighway and just never got off. Or something.

On top of that was the effect of his pre-existed responsibilities, making life with a new "roommate" rather complicated.

He couldn't really hide what they were from her. They were vigilantes, 'Night Watchmen', and they pretty much did what vigilantes did—they fought crime. Unfortunately, crime was a little too close to home for her. Donny was protective of her, but there was only so much he could protect her from—especially in a place like the Lair.

Having Joi there, stationed permanently in his area, it felt as though her thumb was pressed on a nerve. He couldn't relax, and had to be constantly on his guard so as to not bring up topics which might upset her.

One such event involved him radioing in the position of a gang of Purple Dragons. Even though Master Splinter had forbidden him from entering battle_ physically_, it didn't mean that he couldn't do it _in spirit_. Which was to say…on headsets. With his brothers in the fray and himself working the scanners, he was able to hack into satellites to inform them of hidden packs of Foot ninjas or, in this case, uncouth street thugs. But where ninjas were mostly silent, foot soldiers were not—no pun intended.

Caught up in manning the "network" that day, adrenaline rushing despite the fact that he wasn't even physically_ there_, Donatello hadn't even noticed her walking, the sound of weapons clashing in the background and faint cries of defiance—Raphael—and childlike glee—Michelangelo—more his focus.

She'd stayed in the room for hardly more than a minute, in the background, before blanching and ducking back out. Afterward, when he realized that the indentation in the bean bag was cold, he'd gone searching for the girl and had found her in Splinter's room, the old rat's hand running soothingly over her light brown hair and Japanese phrases falling from his lips like gentle rain.

She'd flinched away from him when he spoke to her, and after that point whenever Joi was in the room he wore headphones. _Especially_ if he was coordinating a battle.

The fact that she'd taken to Master Splinter with instant adoration was the only good result to come of the situation.

He'd tried to warn her, really. Because if giant talking turtles wasn't enough of a shock already, a rat typically tipped the scale. But somehow she'd been more accepting of their Sensei than she was of his brothers, which he put down to being due to Splinter's calming personality.

Joi also didn't like to be touched much, that much he had learned. When Mikey stumbled into her she stiffened, when Raphael brushed past her she flinched, and Leo didn't even have to _do anything_ to send the young woman cowering—she instantly ducked, knowing somehow without looking that his gaze was on her.

Only when isolated did she unwind herself out of a paperclip-like position, straightening her back until it popped uncomfortably. Joi was basically made of long limbs, and bony edges, unlike April and her wiry muscle was set to rights.

Some of the "unnerving factor" probably had to do with the fact that at first Joi tended toward watching him for long hours, saying nothing. This was interspersed with a lot of time sleeping, like a cellphone which just couldn't quite keep a charge.

Until one day when he realized, having looked up from the computer screen in front of him to stretch and rub his eyes, that there was an empty spot on the other side of his "office." He'd pulled an all-nighter without realizing it, caught up in some project of his he'd begun in a fit of temper with Leonardo, and now it was morning again. The fact that Joi was 'missing' meant that she was in the shower, a task which began at around 8:00 every morning and ended at 8:30.

But on his eyes' path to "her" spot, a missing detail latched on to his mind, setting off alarms.

There, on his bookshelf, a volume was missing. Between "The Catcher in the Rye" and "The Odyssey" a gap presented itself, the much taller, hard-bound Odyssey leaning in toward its much more rebellious, conflicted neighbor—one of Raph's favorites growing up. He'd initially organized the stacks based on topic, then sub-categorized by author, and alphabetized within each author's works. But recently Mikey had decided to place them together based on color and he just hadn't gotten around to fixing it yet.

With that in mind, the lack was even more glaring, his "red section" missing one of its members.

For "To Kill a Mockingbird" was gone.

His first response was to wonder which of his brothers had broken in and borrowed the novel without correctly "checking it out" of their little library. But it had been there last night, he was sure of it, so…

In Joi's absence Donny pulled his creaking, popping joints out of his chair to discover the bruised volume tucked under the lip of the beanbag chair, where it couldn't be seen from either the view from the doorway or that of his desk. There was also a friendly old copy of, "The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry," placed there, which he hadn't realized was missing.

Unbidden, the answer to all his problems—well, most of them—blossomed within his mind. It was of a remembered conversation, with all the potentialities it implied…

"_I'm not sure if I have talents or, um, traits. But, well, I do like anything involving stories. Things I can get lost in—books, mostly…And I like that I'm creative—that I can imagine things. That I'm somewhere else, or doing something other than…what I have to."_

"_And I like to write poetry."_

~/~/~

Books. Books were the bridge between his world and hers, the causeway between a scared girl and a shy turtle. It gave him a plan of action and something to work frantically work with. Especially if the first volume she'd "borrowed" was one of the last ones he'd suggested to her over the phone.

His first test had been slipping a copy of "Stargirl" by Jerry Spinelli beneath the folds of the purple blanket she'd taken to claiming as her own. When Joi returned that day Donatello heard the initial gasp at her find, playing it cool as he watched her reaction in the glass of his monitors. But when he later looked back it was to discover her long nose tucked beneath the pages of the turquoise novel.

When that was finished Michelangelo's copy of, "The Last Unicorn," magically appeared beside her when she wasn't looking. Along with a small pad of paper, and a few un-chewed ballpoint pens—he'd made certain of that given his absentminded habit.

Several days later the pad was filled and wordlessly he replaced it with another.

Of course, that wouldn't last for long, especially if she was to continue in the same vein. So during his free time—between keeping food on the table, fixing up the things his brothers broke, and trying to catch up on a plethora of old projects Don had just never gotten the chance to explore—he worked on fixing up an old laptop he'd scrounged together out of old parts and a dented casing.

~/~/~

The individual books got bigger. And they started to form into stacks, almost like literary furniture as she used a few of them to prop up her writing materials. The computer was also a big hit, originally wrapped like a present in newsprint and a hair ribbon he'd picked up on a past junk run, resulting in wide, grateful eyes, and a solemn, "thank you, Donny. I really…really appreciate it."

There was really no way to describe the swelling which grew within his chest at those two, simple words. It was like finding an oasis in the desert, especially after the minimal vocal contact between them. But all he'd been able to do was cough and blush and maybe grin too much as he said, "ah, um, you're…you're welcome, Joi." Nearly falling out of his chair in the process, of course.

She'd nibbled on her bottom lip and grinned at him bashfully, something soft in her eyes telling him that the girl thought that his awkwardness was adorable.

They both turned back to their activities after that, blushing and avoiding eye contact.

That was the starting point. From there they chatted each day—briefly. With Joi sometimes asking questions about his work while he queried about what she liked and disliked in her reading.

Then one time the human girl followed him into the kitchen for breakfast. And then came the next day. And the next. For all three meals in the day.

It got to a point where they all took meals together. Joi usually shadowed Donatello, eating very little, while the rest of the turtles rotated around them and Splinter like satellites kept in range by a gravitational pull. But at least Joi wasn't edging away from the rest of his brothers in fear. That had taken some time and doing, especially as the girl had a habit of throwing up her hands reflexively in a, "don't hurt me," pose every time they neared her.

With her emotional state being what it was she wasn't allowed anywhere near the knives—she shied away from them without any of them saying anything anyway, so it had become an unwritten rule. But plates, cups, and spoons were free game. Thus as Mikey made dinner each night Joi set the table.

Something about the kitchen soothed her, the way that even his lab didn't. Maybe it was because in eating, even if she never partook of much, she was focused on other things. The fact that they all ate together was an equalizing element, emphasized by the fact that Master Splinter didn't allow weapons at or on the table.

That the kitchen was also Michelangelo's domain had added benefits.

The first instance of it happening Joi had been listening attentively to Donatello discussing updates for the Battleshell. At the same time Mikey surreptitiously came up behind her to slip the almost-finished grilled cheese sandwich off of her plate…

And replace it with another one, a deliberate "bite" cut out of the front so that she wouldn't notice that this was an entirely new one.

It was almost comical, watching his brother with puffed-up cheeks, holding his breath and walking on metaphorical 'turtle-shells.' _At least his ninjitsu skills were good for something_, Donny thought with a wry sort of smile, because Mike never got caught. All three times he did it, actually, managing to refill her glass of milk twice as well.

Afterwards their conversation had been in deliberate whispers, his younger brother explaining everything with surprising simplicity.

"Dude, the Dudette has some _serious_ bones on her. I mean, Master Splinter doesn't eat much but even _he_ needs to eat more than once a day, and Joi's at _least_ two feet taller than him."

"I doubt that it's two complete feet, Mikey," Donatello corrected as he set to drying the dish he held in his hands. His younger brother shrugged.

"Doesn't matter—she looks _way _too much like a kid of Jack and Sally, if you know what I'm saying? It can't be healthy."

The techie sighed, "it's not. Anyway, um, thanks for that and…try to help where you're able to."

"Can do, Bro. 'Keep up the good work,' and all that jazz."

"…right."

~/~/~

Sitting side-by-side with her, especially on those nights when all was calm topside and his brothers didn't need him, they'd slowly fallen into conversations about what they were reading. It had started with questions like:

"What do you think about this book?" regarding "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe," "The Fellowship of the Ring," and "The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy."

And

"Are you happy you read this one, or disturbed?" after she'd chosen to picked up, "Brave New World." It was a classic, stirring to the point of being earth-shattering, but with her kind of issues could be horrifying. Still, he was glad that she hadn't picked up "The Mayor of Casterbridge"—Joi already had enough "Daddy Issues" as it was.

"I'm glad that I read it," she began shortly, "but I don't think I ever want to read it again."

Donatello laughed.

Then there were more analytical questions, such as (involving Agatha Christie's, "And Then There Were None."):

"Who do you think is the murderer? Do you think that their actions are justified? I mean, all of them are guilty, after all."

Joi had frowned at that, "yes, but that doesn't mean…that doesn't mean that they should be able to take justice into their own hands."

"Well, then who should?"

Which brought about a whole other conversation involving the justice system and how punishments were divvied out. They both neatly avoided discussing her own situation, and in the course of things got into a healthy debate in which he chose to play the devil's advocate. When she finally stopped, eyes narrowed with irritation Donny had finally admitted to his role in the process and she'd willingly initiated physical contact.

By smacking him in the shoulder.

Laughing, he'd only half-heartedly dodged her bony little fists.

~/~/~

"How does this feel? Does it feel okay?"

"Donny, it's fine."

"And here, any pain?" he carefully moved his large, thick fingers over the area on her leg, touching the points of the break that he was most worried about. In response she hissed, hands moving instinctively to stop his.

But he had no intention of moving—none at all. He was completely frozen, her soft skin along the top of his leathery epidermis.

Realizing that he'd stopped, Joi looked up—then pulled in a sharp breath. She drew back her arms, fisting the fabric of her shirt as she blushed furiously, drowning into the fabric of her lap.

Donatello coughed and continued the checkup. Just…more _gently_ this time. After all, Joi wasn't one of his brothers, trained to handle pain with reasonable tolerance.

Nope, she wasn't a bit like his brothers. Not at all.

~/~/~

"If you can get yourself to a healthy weight then I'll take you clothes shopping—my treat," April outlined plainly, arms crossed. It was the ultimate carrot-and-stick routine while also keying in on the thing Joi currently wanted most—time with a mother figure of some kind. She still hadn't quite expounded on what had happened in that arena, so he was mostly just waiting for her to be comfortable enough to tell him at this point. But the desire for feminine company was almost desperately obvious.

Especially when dealing with a household of males. Plus it was a benefit to him as well. He'd get the chance to go 'Topside,' and stretch his legs. Maybe he could even convince April into taking a detour down by the junkyard—an optimistic hope, but still a plausible one. In a way he'd been enjoying his reprieve, but in many other ways it was driving him batty.

The slim brunette hesitated, wrapping her arms around her and wincing as they landed on her ribs. Mikey's ploy to "fatten her up", had been working, give or take, but she still had a long way to go before she was anywhere near what the redhead termed, "a healthy weight."

"Just think about it," April O'Neil-Jones merely smiled and headed for the kitchen, where Mike was cooking stroganoff.

~/~/~

The hand went up to the back of her head unconsciously, sliding up the length of a strand before plucking it out with a gentle 'plink' of a tug. Her other limb was busy propping up a tired copy of "An Old Fashioned Girl," by Louisa may Alcott, long fingers thumbing the page absently.

Donatello plopped himself down beside her on the beanbag chair, causing Joi to look up with startled, fawn-colored eyes. But no fear. There was no fear there at all as he essentially invaded her space to an extreme degree.

It was midday, so almost reflexively she asked, "aren't you—?"

He motioned toward the headset resting on his desk, "taking a break."

With a full and weighty sigh the turtle settled down, his shoulder brushing hers in a way that left them both distinctly aware of one another. Enough that the hand she had burrowed up in her hair moved from its former position down to her lap.

Don took this opportunity to pick the free limb up in his, enfolding each of her five long fingers in his three. Effectively trapped, Joi couldn't go back to pulling her hair out. And, having pulled out a tattered copy of, "Good Omens," that April had just picked for him, he played at not noticing what he'd done.

Namely, capturing her hand. Keeping it from going anywhere.

He was essentially _holding Joi's hand._

It was purely for the purposes of helping her, he told himself. Not because he'd wanted to do it for a very, very long time, or anything.

After several long minutes the young human woman's stiffness loosened slightly. Soon enough they had both become accustomed to juggling their reading materials with one hand, the other clasped together. Later still, Joi found herself blinking awake, her head on his muscular shoulder—with their hands still linked from wrists to fingertips.

Later still Michelangelo came into the lab to call them in for dinner only to ultimately decide that this was a Very Bad Plan. Instead he pulled up the tattered purple and green blanket around the slumbering duo, Donatello having slumped against the wall and Joi following after in order to rest her head against the spot just above his plastron. Their books were forgotten, hands still linked together.

Neither of them noticed the flash of one well-used Polaroid camera.

~/~/~

"I want to finish high school. And then take college classes."

Donatello blinked, potato ship halfway to his mouth. He had this habit of forgetting to eat when in his lab, so usually set out a few snacks before he began a large project or a long hacking session or…a series of intentional detonations. As it was, it wasn't the most nutritious of habits, but at least he didn't have to deal with gnawing hunger on top of all the rest of his distractions.

"Sorry, could you repeat that?"

Turning to face her, he watched as Joi swallowed harshly. Then forced herself to vocalize the thought a second time, "I…I want to finish high school. Somehow, I mean. I could always do homeschooling, right?"

He fought the urge to smile. Her desire for formal education was a direct side-effect to her expanding intellect and growing confidence in education—and the voices of those authors which called to her as their kin, embracing her through the barrier of time, distance, and sometimes even language.

It was the first sign that Joi's curiosity was beginning to overcome her fear.

"Well, we could always see if the local community college has any internet courses set up to help people finish high school. On that thought, I might sign up for some of them, myself."

~/~/~

"Mistress, we have detected strange behavior from the Hamato Clan," the masked underling pulled out a tablet before his leader, the lounging, cat-like form sipping her tea slowly. This was the time of day in which she received updates and news, placed just before supper so that she could mull over the information gleaned while enjoying her meal.

Nodding shortly, she took the device from his hand, frowning as each detail scrolled past.

A man named Roberts was claiming that either Gecko Warriors or Karate Frogs had taken his daughter. He was being held on vehicle infractions. There was no car title under his name at that time. Joi Roberts was missing. The school PS118 was filing charges against Mr. Roberts regarding the absent Miss Joi Roberts.

One dark eyebrow jumped up—otherwise her expression remained placid and cool. The Foot ninja removed the device, taking its surprising story with it.

Karai tapped her chin thoughtfully, "what do we know about this girl?"

He wordlessly handed her a single page, awaiting her response. But this time the kunoichi actually gaped. As her expression hardened she folded the page with precision and slipped it into her desk drawer.

The lowly soldier blinked—it was rare that the great Karai took his news so personally, as indicated by the fact that she actually kept the missive rather than shredding it, "Mistress, what would you have us do?"

Fiddling with the streak of red in her otherwise midnight hair, she was frowned furiously in deep thought. Despite this, her beauty was unmarred and perhaps improved by her fierceness.

He bowed his head with baited breath.

"We will do…nothing."

The man's eyes lifted to his superior, unable to disguise his shock, "Karai-Sama? But this is a clear lead—!"

Her eyes flashed across the mahogany expanse of her desk, "you _dare_ question my decision?"

"N-no, Mistress Karai."

"In this singular instance…we will do nothing. The turtles have acted with honor, and this young woman is to be left alone," her chest lifted in a sigh so slight it could have almost been imagined. The Japanese woman then gazed, unseeing, at the large statue which was her 'father,' her savior.

"Should the turtles take any others under their proverbial wings our actions will be determined on a case-by-case basis. Is that understood?"

~/~/~

A/N: Yay! Lots of little scenes. Not much to say this time around.

Except that PS118 is actually the Elementary School from "Hey Arnold," not a High School in New York. ;) Also, enjoy all the books mentioned—I tried to go for ones that were important to me, or well-known as classics. Or, you know, things that Donny would probably read. ^^ Joi's opinion about "Brave New World," is mine, and I really despise, "The Mayor of Casterbridge."

Merely this: a reminder that this story is not just about Donny and Joi. It's about to get a lot more…complicated. :3


	9. Immovable Object

**Hotline**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one turtle's choice affects the entire team.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except for fond childhood memories of watching turtle cartoons on Saturday mornings.

**Quick Author Note:** Donatello's nickname will be written as "Donny" rather than "Donnie" in this, as determined by the subtitles of the live action films. I wasn't sure which spelling to go with, but that little detail became the deciding factor. :)

~/~/~

Chapter 9: Immovable Object

"_Policeman says, "Son, you can't stay here."  
I said, "There's someone I'm waiting for if it's a day, a month, a year.  
Gotta stand my ground even if it rains or snows.  
If she changes her mind this is the first place she will go."_

_'Cause if one day you wake up and find that you're missing me_  
_And your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I could be_  
_Thinking maybe you'll come back here to the place that we'd meet_  
_And you'll see me waiting for you on the corner of the street_

_So I'm not moving, I'm not moving,_  
_I'm not moving, I'm not moving_

_People talk about the guy that's waiting on a girl, oh ohh_  
_There are no holes in his shoes but a big hole in his world, hmm_

_And maybe I'll get famous as the man who can't be moved_  
_Maybe you won't mean to but you'll see me on the news_  
_And you'll come running to the corner_  
_'Cause you'll know it's just for you_  
_I'm the man who can't be moved_  
_I'm the man who can't be moved"_

-The Script, "The Man Who Can't Be Moved"

Out of all the places they'd ever broken into, he could honestly say that this was a first. The alarms were minimal, the security so lax it was almost nonexistent, and the whole setup was downright sloppy. Then again, he'd never really been in a public school before, so he wasn't sure what to compare it against. But what he did see was rather dismal.

Faded blue-grey linoleum, beige lockers, and despite their disappointing security measures, the whole place had a "lockdown" feel to it, with bars on a few of the windows and a surprisingly new-looking metal detector at the front.

What desks he could see through open doorways were made up of worn wood and bland plastic, chalkboards instead of newer whiteboards. The whole place had the look about it of being stuck somewhere in the 1980's. Like he'd somehow fallen into the setup of _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_ or something, dropped there by some unknown deity.

Although that wasn't right—he knew why he was here, and the sole blame went to Donny.

Unbidden, his mind went back.

~/~/~

"_Joi wants to finish school," the words, spoken deliberately into the dojo, interrupted his kata. Leo's arms slowly lowered, careful of the weapons he held. Then, deciding that it was time to work on other things anyway, the other turtle began putting his equipment—including his priceless swords—away._

"_Good to hear. What does that have to do with me?" his words were short and sharp and he almost regretted them—almost. Because usually out of all his brothers he got along with Donny the best._

_It was just that…Joi put him on edge for some reason. Or, to put it more accurately, the way that Donny kowtowed to her every whim put him on edge. Where was his calm, logical brother, he wondered? Someone who could calculate the risks and shie away from exposure. This version of Don had nothing to do with the original model; a false copy portraying emotions which were out of character for the technologically-inclined turtle._

_At least, those emotions hadn't appeared since Donny was mooning after April, ten years previous. But that had been when they were teenagers and prone to wildly shifting emotions, he justified. It was a normal part of growing up, and also something which they set aside as they got older._

_Plus, Leonardo wasn't about to compare Joi to April—they weren't even close to being similar. April was strong, confident, adaptable. Sure, she'd freaked out upon first meeting them—given the circumstances he couldn't fault her for it. Mutated turtles and rats aside, she'd already gone through a series of shocks. But the fact of the matter, though, was that she'd bounced back—she was their _Ane_, their older sister._

_Joi, on the other hand, recoiled whenever he came near. She always seemed to be ducking her head or hiding behind Don—he couldn't help but think that it was all an act; no one was that fearful. Sometimes it just made him want to pick her up and shake her. To say, _"who are you really working for?! And why do you have such a hold on my brother?!"

_But that would probably result in a complete falling out with Don. Which was the worst part—he was seemingly chosen his 'friendship' with the Roberts girl over their family. Not being allowed to go on patrol was supposed to be a punishment—Leo knew that Splinter had intended it that way—yet Donatello had accepted it with calm cheerfulness for the most part. _

_It was like he didn't even _miss_ them._

_Or that he thought, for some reason, that giving them intel over a headset made up for not being by their side._

_The whole situation just made him short-tempered and frustrated._

_Which is why he reacted the way that he did—cold, sardonic, biting._

_Donatello frowned but didn't rise to the bait, unfortunately, "well, it concerns you because I can't leave the Lair."_

"_And?" he prompted, back still turned._

"_And," his younger brother's tone was sharp, "Master Splinter asked _me_ to ask _you_ to go get her things from her school locker."_

_Leonardo scowled at this clear evidence of the olive-colored turtle undermining his authority by going straight to their father._

"_She has a lot of her schoolwork there that she would like to finish or use to catch up. It would maybe allow her to start college in the Fall. Plus there's some of her mother's things in there, so it's kind of important."_

Joi wanted to finish high school. So that she could go to college. Which potentially meant that she would be moving out of the Lair.

_The vigilante group's leader finished his ministrations and turned around, irritated expression still in place. But the logic of his thought process was already cementing itself in his mind._

"_Fine. But after that I'm not doing you any more favors."_

~/~/~

So now he was stuck here, in the late evening, doing Don's dirty work. Mikey had offered to come with him, but he knew that it was out of the desire to see if all high schools matched his TV-influenced view of them, not out of the intent to be helpful.

Leo had left him home due to security reasons. Mostly.

Partially he just wanted the chance to clear his head.

Being with his family was wonderful in many ways, but having lived in the Amazon jungle for several years he'd learned to appreciate solitude, a commodity he couldn't always get at home. Where Raphael had Casey to bust heads with and drink a beer or two at the end of the day, Leo sought quiet. And it was matched by a strange itching ache in his chest that had developed over the past couple of years—ever since April and Casey got married.

He'd tried to figure out where that 'unease' stemmed from, but all his internal evaluations hadn't resulted in any results yet.

But maybe with some time he could figure it out.

Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, Leo shook his mind out of its short daze, continuing to examine the building.

Despite the rather drab look of the place, he could at least say that it was clean. If the materials were old and worn, then the wood shone with recent oiling and the floors were clear of litter. The boards were the dark black and green of having been wiped down with water and there was no tagging or gang signs on the lockers or walls—making this one of the largest graffiti-free spaces he'd seen in his home town of New York. Then again, he generally didn't get the chance to view the _interior_ of most buildings…

There were minimal decorations, of course, what posters which existed drawn out in bright, bold colors with too many exclamation points. Mostly they declared details like, "Last Debate Tournament of the Year. SUPPORT YOUR DEBATORS!" and "Senior Play. The Importance of Being Earnest." Plus there was the odd typed up notice, "don't forget to order your yearbook!"

Whatever a yearbook was.

All this he observed within the darkness, eyes adjusting so that he could imagine what it looked like in the full glare of day. Streetlight from the world outside filtered through far-off windows like silvery reflections on a pond, washing the linoleum with ghostly blues, and the harsh golden security lamps near the office and computer labs. But otherwise the place was silent—the way that he liked it.

Pulling out the carefully folded piece of paper from within a pouch on his belt, Leonardo frowned at Joi's faint handwriting. It could have been written by a feather, for how light and hesitant it was. The lines were long and delicate, with only the slightest bit of a hook at the ends. Only the dots had any substance, like big black eyes jabbed on to the page.

For some reason they made him feel uncomfortable.

She'd suggested that he come through a loose window in the girl's bathroom on the main floor, as it was near the hallway her locker resided in. But that also put him just down from the office, where one of the school's few security cameras was posted.

He tried to move silently, ignoring the prickling of unease the turtle felt as he potentially exposed himself in the "open" area. But when no lasers came at him or klaxons went off his shoulders dropped and he set about figuring this locker situation.

He hated to admit it, but Donny usually took care of these sorts of situations. And it wasn't like he couldn't figure it out, but there just wasn't any muscle memory there for turning dials and pressing buttons. In this case it was a locker combination.

_#A-113. Two turns to the right…38…one turn left…24…one half turn right…34. Gotcha._ The door opened with a metallic clang, obvious in the stark emptiness of the pubic school building and he hissed in dissatisfaction, teeth gritted.

When this didn't seem to result in people running at him with weapons of any kind, or even alarms going off, the turtle carefully continued. Dragging the gunny sack he'd been towing along up and over his shell that he could start filling it.

"Not the 3 large textbooks at the bottom," Joi had written out. They were apparently school property, but he carefully began packing the rest.

There were novels, for one, from "Persuasion" to "A Little Princess," and even, "The Phantom of the Opera." Plus titles that were a little more modern, like, "Ella Enchanted." Joi said that she'd taken them to school to protect them from her father, which made sense given Roberts' apparent drunkenness.

Leonardo didn't doubt for a second that Donny would be borrowing some of these titles in the future—after all, any new reading material was good reading material, and these were in surprisingly good condition. Especially when compared to the fare that they were used to.

There were also what he assumed were journals or study notebooks, many of which were either black or pink for some reason, most of the text written out in purple. Also a shoebox, which was heavier than expected. Its content slid around with a metallic, almost serpentine sound that made him think of—

"Drop the box and step away from the locker!"

The command came in a powerful feminine voice, originating from the direction of the main office.

The vigilante's immediate response was to dive forward, using the metal door as a shield. But he knew it couldn't block everything, and his knew that his shell was distinctly sticking out.

"Listen, lady, this isn't what it looks like," he tried to reason with her while concurrently attempting to stuff the box into his sack.

_Ah, shell,_ Leo thought mentally. The box wouldn't_ fit_. He would probably have to dump the contents in and—

The crackle of a Taser being put to use sent his spine tingling.

_So much for people not running at him with weapons_, he thought dryly.

"Oh, it is exactly what it looks like," the woman proclaimed fiercely, "Joi Roberts is missing and then you come along, rifling through her stuff. Occam's Razor. The simplest explanation is probably the right one."

Shell. He'd been caught by a _teacher_.

"Put your hands up and move away."

He scowled into the metal confines, large hand poised to pour the container's contents into his bag. But that would likely make sound. And he still had to get out of here.

"Why should I?" he demanded icily, "I can see no benefit in it, not with you armed."

"Yes, but we're at a stalemate," she responded almost sweetly, voice low and rich, "you're going to have to come out some time. Especially as my friend from the police force is already on her way over. You sounded the silent alarms."

_Silent alarms?!_ How did he miss those? _No_, he sternly told himself, _she must be bluffing_. Which meant that it was time to play his hand. After all, she thought that he was a looter, but she didn't know what kind of 'looter' he was.

"I don't believe that. Just like I don't believe that you'll actually shoot me," he called out, words echoing through the door. With some reluctance he pushed the shoebox back into the topmost shadow of Joi's locker, where most people wouldn't be able to see it.

"And why do you think that?" her voice was confident, in counterpoint to the static heat his reptilian blood picked up from several feet away.

Leonardo slowly straightened, bag carefully set on the floor in a smooth, soundless way. He would pick it back up after dealing with the situation.

"Because you'll never get the chance to do it," he intoned ominously.

Then he was moving faster than human eye could follow in the darkness, leaping toward the human and pulling her into a roll. She was shorter than he expected, though, and…fuller, so the traditional ninjitsu flip became more of an altered tumble. His miscalculation almost sent her head slamming into the linoleum and instinctively Leo caught it before it could make contact, knowing that a fall like that would probably be permanent.

Because while he wanted to stop her, he logically knew that she was just defending her territory and what might be construed as her 'family.'

Her skull bounced off of his muscular palm, and he was surprised to find her hair thick and springy. But thoughts like that were shut out as she yelped into his ear.

Then he was on top of her, pinning her arm to her ample chest. Being eye to eye with the human, he was witness to her wide expression as she took in his appearance, shadows and reflected light falling against the mottled skin, followed by a harshly indrawn breath. But shock didn't halt her for long.

"Who—whu—who _are you?_"

"That doesn't matter," his voice rumbled low in his chest, beneath the plastron level, "you're going to let what you've seen go and not come after me."

Something shifted in her dark eyes, and full lips pursed in a furious expression, "not until I know Joi's safe, I'm _not._"

Then, from the proximity of mere inches, something pierced his skin and sent a bolt of straight pain through him.

He'd incapacitated her right hand, aiming to remove the Taser from the equation.

The only problem being that she was left-handed.

~/~/~

The heavy shuffle and gasp of his brother startled them out of their conversation, and without pause he leapt over the couch, leaving Joi to watch them both with wide eyes. Neither brother paid her shock any attention, Donatello's attention immediately going to the way Leo was wincing, his bag roughly thrown over the back of his shell.

They both shifted over to the infirmary before any words were said.

"Leo, what happened?" Don asked as he worked at checking the wound, eventually throwing a blanket around Leo so that he could go grab some sterile bandages.

"It appears your little songbird has at least one defender," he winced, hand hovering over the wound gingerly, "she _tased_ me."

The olive turtle sat back on his heels for a moment, _"who_ tased you?"

"I think she was a teacher or something," he frowned, "I tried to neutralize the attack, but she got one in when I least expected it. I limped on out of there after grabbing the bag."

Donny hummed as he moved from his ministrations—checking and covering Leo's injuries, the double puncture wounds looking red and angry against his brother's upper chest—to pulling up a new program on the small computer they kept in the medical facility. A few minutes later he asked, "was it one of these three? They're the only ones with access to the building after hours."

Three individuals—a wizened Caucasian man, a young Latin-American woman, and a handsome African-American woman—appeared on the jittery, slightly off-color screen.

Leonardo jabbed one large terrapin finger at the last image, "that one, that's her."

"Well, it looks like you really know how to pick 'em, Leo," his brother remarked wryly.

"What, why?"

"That's the Principal."

"What?" he hissed.

He nodded, "Principal Sarah Burns-Nichols, age 35—pretty young, all things considered. Recipient of the Teacher of the Year award a few years back. Does a little bit of public speaking and has some slight political clout—she's the one that fought to keep art programs in New York's schools last year."

"I remember," the older turtled sighed, before he ran a hand over his face. Then swore in Japanese.

Donatello's eye ridges jumped up in surprise before slowly nodding, "my thoughts, exactly. Well, not in so many words, but…"

He made an abrupt decision, "I'll go back tomorrow."

"What? _Why?_ I mean, are you sure that's wise? Especially now that she's _seen _you?"

Leo forced himself to be honest, a painful expression on his face, "I…I didn't get everything."

"_What?_" Donatello gaped.

"There was a box," he murmured, touching his skin gingerly, "I didn't get the chance to grab it. I got all the books, but I think…I think that it held Joi's mother's possessions."

His brother looked horrified, an expression he couldn't help feeling guilty about. Not for Joi, but that he hadn't done the job right. That he'd failed a request by a member of his family. And he'd also failed Splinter-_Sensei's _expectations of him.

Looking away, he said quietly, "additionally, it's better to just deal with the situation before it becomes a problem. She already asked about Joi—" he ignored the medic's cry of dismay, "—imagine what could happen if she starts scouring the internet for information about mutant turtles?"

"Then she also gets information about flying bat people, Spiderman, and alligators in the sewers, too," Donatello answered with sharp practicality. Not that that last one was all that inaccurate, they both knew.

"Then we have the same sort of situation as when April first started sniffing around the Foot, is what we'll have—she'll draw attention, and we don't need another civilian in the mix to worry about. Not with everything else I've got on my plate right now," the last of his words were muttered anxiously as he paced, folding his arms in agitating and then quickly pulling them away as he hissed, painfully reminded of his wound.

The comment reminded Donny of the part he'd played in the 'everything' Leo was talking about, making him frown, but the turtle only asked, "well, what are you going to do?"

Their leader sighed heavily before looking away, licking his lower lip, then turning back, "do we have one of those Polaroids Mikey took of Joi?"

Donatello blinked and straightened. Michelangelo had been playing with the archaic camera ever since they discovered it in the dump. And, unable to help himself, Donny's curiosity led him to replicate the chemical compound used in Polaroid film. After that their youngest brother had gone on a bit of a photographic rampage, "I think so, why?"

"She said that she wanted evidence of Joi's safety. So I'm going to give her evidence."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

~/~/~

AN: the locker combination is that of my work locker, which I used for seven years straight. ^^

One nerdy reference that is not likely to be picked up is that Joi's notebooks are a callback to Helga G. Pataki's poetry volumes, in the show _Hey Arnold_, most of which are pink. She also has a tendency to write in purple, according to fans. ;)

To all those interested in seeing the fanart that I've created for this story (and possibly getting a glimpse of what Joi looks like), please visit my deviantart account: shahrezad1. deviantart gallery/ 50544260 /Teenage -Mutant -Ninja -Turtles (remove spaces)


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